I Wasn't Expecting That
by notalone91
Summary: The Many-Faced God is as fair as possible when it comes to love. On a person's twenty-first Nameday, their soulmate is bound to them by a mark on their body with the first sentence they'll ever speak to their love. There's no rhyme or reason. If it were, everyone would have a match; everyone's soulmate would make sense. When Tyrion Lannister gets his, will it work out?
1. Chapter 1

The Many-Faced God is as fair as possible when it comes to love. Each of the Seven needs 3 chances to make their decision on a match. It is said that they each look for different things and take a year each time. On the twenty-first Nameday, a person's soulmate is bound to them by a mark on their body with the first sentence they'll ever speak to their love. Some believe The Maiden has the final say. Some, The Mother. Most, however, blame The Stranger. There's no rhyme or reason. If it were, everyone would have a match; everyone's soulmate would make sense.

On his twenty-first nameday, Tyrion Lannister spent the majority of the day alone, waiting to see where his would turn up. Neither Jaime nor Cersei would tell him where theirs had come in. His father's had been on his wrist. He'd bedded women with their markings on their thighs, their shoulders, their ankles, their ribs. There was no way of knowing where the mark would turn up. He'd been hoping that his would be somewhere that everyone could see so that maybe it would be easier to believe that he could be loved, despite what his father and sister claimed. When he felt the burning, stinging pain just below his right clavicle, he'd been a little disappointed that it was in a place that would be hidden by his clothing. His heart pounded as he strode to the looking glass. He appraised himself sadly, momentarily pitying the person whose words were now emblazoned on his skin for all eternity. "What a horrible fate," he thought, imagining the look on any person's face when they realized that they were bound, in one way or another to the Lannister imp. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and slid it to the side, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

Tyrion had always presumed his mark would be something vague or generic. "My lord," or "Ah, so it's you, then." Even "Well, that's unexpected." "No fucking way," wouldn't even have surprised him. Something that would make it easy for them to take one look at him and run.

"I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."

The script was perfect; neat, even, flowy, definitely that of a highborn lady. He read the words over and over. They didn't make sense. It was all in the common tongue and yet he couldn't make sense of the simple seven-word sentence. "...my beloved Joffrey?" he spat. "My soulmate is in love with my fourteen-year-old nephew?" He took a moment to let it all sink in. He knew that it sometimes happened that way; that people would find themselves burdened with a match who would be bonded to another. He'd never heard of a situation like this. He should have known. How stupid could he have been to want it in an obvious place. What would his sister do if she found out that a profession of loyalty to her son was emblazoned on his chest? "The Gods are truly cruel beings after all, aren't they?" he whispered to himself, turning to the decanter of wine on the table, taking it and the single goblet to the bed. "As expected, then. The drunken little whoremonger I shall be."

For years to follow, Lord Tyrion was as he decided on that fateful day. He'd drink and fuck and drink and fuck. When he wasn't drinking or fucking he was thinking about drinking and fucking but that seemed to be even less fulfilling as his mind would always wander to the potential of a woman who loved him, only to be dismissed by the remembrance of the words on his chest. Of course she'd be highborn, gorgeous, kind, strong, probably Southern, maybe a Martell from Dorne or House Tyrell of the Reach. Either way, a strong ally for house Baratheon and a torment for him until his dying day. Occasionally, a woman he'd take to bed would notice the mark and put two and two together, giving him a look of pity, all-too-often seeing men with rather damning first words and knowing the pain. He'd even once been abed with a woman whose own mark, high on her beautifully tanned leg, had read "No one could possibly love a whore." His heart had broken for the woman. He'd paid her double.

One cold day, on the cusp of Winter, Tyrion found himself part of the Royal Caravan heading to Winterfell. King Robert, his sister's husband, had just lost his most faithful advisor and the only person he could think of to replace him was his brother-in-arms, best friend, and Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. It was a long ride, and Tyrion had always enjoyed seeing the Seven Kingdoms but never spent much time in the North. He decided, perhaps, this might be the trip where he went to visit The Wall.

The Starks had lined up in the courtyard of Winterfell to receive the visitors. Ned and Robert headed straight for the Crypts. Catelyn offered to give Cersei the grand tour. Robb and Arya found themselves immediately drawn to the queen's brother, Jaime, asking for training tips. Bran and Rickon stuck close to Sansa who, despite exchanging pleasantries with the princes and princess, found herself staring at the man who'd ridden in just behind them. She'd heard stories of Lord Tyrion, the queen's drunken younger brother, and his condition. She'd never imagined that he would be so... comely wasn't exactly the word she was looking for. Especially with his brother Jaime right next to him, she supposed that the conventional terms for an attractive man weren't entirely accurate... but he was certainly captivating. As she escorted the Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen around the castle, Bran and Rickon at her heels, her mind kept wandering back to the courtyard and to Tyrion.

A feast for the arrival of the visitors had been prepared in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The royal family and the Starks were seated along a large table near the front. Tyrion knew that he had to make an appearance, but his sister's insistence that he sit at the end between Prince Tommen and Lord Rickon, the two youngest boys, surely left him desperate for the feast to begin so he could make his exit for the nearest brothel. Before the food was brought out, Lord Eddard rose from his place near the center, immediately to the king's right side. "Today is a joyous occasion. The people of the North welcome the royal family, King Robert, Queen Cersei, Princes Joffrey and Tommen, and Princess Myrcella," his acknowledgments went greeted by a curt nod from each of the members mentioned. From opposite ends of the table, Tyrion and his brother, Jaime, shared an annoyed glance. Ned Stark held no love for the Lannisters, so the fact that he neglected to add them to his list was no surprise. The Lord continued, "King Robert has graciously offered to have me join his Small Counsel in King's Landing. I leave my son, Robb, to rule the North in my absence." He nodded to the young man sat to his mother's left. "In, perhaps, the highest honor of the evening, I do wish to announce the betrothal of my eldest daughter, Sansa, to Prince Joffrey. We've known of the match for some time now, but have decided it was time to go public, as she will be traveling South with us."

Tyrion's heart stopped. Lady Sansa. He stared down the line of faces to the young woman sitting between Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella and felt a knot develop in the pit of his stomach. "To Lady Sansa and Prince Joffrey," the newly-appointed hand raised his glass to the blond boy of not-quite-twenty to his right, then to the young lady beside him, "May they know peace. May they know happiness. May they know the completion of the soul that comes with all-consuming love. Long may they reign." He concluded his toast, kind eyes gleaming with tears of sentimentality for the hopes he held dear for his oldest daughter.

Tyrion found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the girl. No one had told him, of course, that Ned Stark's seventeen-year-old daughter was part of why they were going to Winterfell. Granted, they had no reason to. It wasn't even to do with the version of his soulmate he'd invented. No, Sansa Stark was even more marvelous than his drunken brain could imagine. She was perfect. Beautiful, and lithe, and redheaded, and pale, and blue-eyed, and full lips... and tall. So fucking tall. And, if her family was anything judge by, fair, and honest, and noble... And young, he remembered. She's seventeen. Seventeen and engaged to your nephew, you absolute wretch. Let them be happy, even if Joffrey is shaping up to be quite the little shit.

"Yes," he thought, "I'm definitely going to ride north to The Wall. I might even take the fucking Black."

He suddenly found himself incapable of remaining in the room, no matter how ungrateful his absence would render him. As he made his exit, a certain young woman found herself watching him leave as she wondered what could possibly have prompted such a sudden motion. Tyrion could almost swear he heard a feminine voice asking "Where is your uncle going in such a hurry?" He chose not to stick around to hear the response.

After his brief visit to the wall, Tyrion rode back for Winterfell with a kindness for a certain young lord who'd taken a conspicuous tumble from a tower window. He had quite the soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things, so it remained far from anyone's mind that such an effort would ever have an ulterior motive. Especially the thought that, perhaps, it might earn him some credit with the child's older sister. As he rode for the city along the King's Road, he toyed with the idea of heading for Casterly Rock, but the thought was soon stripped from his hands as he was captured by Lady Catelyn Stark for the attempted murder of her son, Brandon. As he was tied to the back of a horse by one of the men she rode with to be led to her sister's home in the Eyrie, he silently cursed every last one of the Seven. Of course, this made sense. He'd practically handed himself to the woman who would be his death because he allowed himself to hope that, perhaps, he could sway some fondness in his favor from Lady Sansa. Struggling to keep up with the animal's pace, Tyrion spoke to the rider. "You know, Lady Stark, I was just at Winterfell." She seemed largely set in ignoring him. "I stopped to share designs for a modified saddle with your son that might help him to ride a horse again and even give him the opportunity to practice archery since I recalled that he and your younger daughter seemed to be quite interested in that skill." He could have sworn he saw her cast a glance his way. "Why, pray tell, would I do that if I had made an attempt on his life? I thought, perhaps, given the circumstances, some form of normalcy would be good for him."

"That sounds like guilt," Lady Stark said shortly.

"Guilt?" Tyrion squawked. "My Lady, If I were guilty of something as heinous as attempted murder on a child, I'd have stayed at The Wall," he insisted. He lapsed back into the silence, bewildered by the circumstances. "Could you at least untie me?" Catelyn gave an indignant snort of a laugh. "If I run, I'm most likely to be struck down by the Hill Tribes anyway, so what difference does it make? Either way, I'm dead." Nothing. He grew bored of the silence and moved, instead, to provoke her.

"Instead of making a show of this trip to the Vale, why not just kill me here? Be done with it." Protect your daughter from the likes of me.  
Lady Catelyn reigned her horse to a stop and turned to face him fully. "I am not a murderer, Lannister."

"Neither am I! I had nothing to do with this, no matter what you may think." He thought, briefly, to show Lady Catelyn the mark on his chest that bore words he knew could only be spoken by her daughter but thought the better of it. With the rage she harbored for him, it was more likely that the suggestion that he be bound to another of her children might turn her heart to stone and have her kill him immediately. "What reason could I have?"

"Your dagger-"

Tyrion gave an exaggerated groan. "My dagger. Yes, of course. My dagger." His bright green eyes bore into hers, so much the same as her daughter's. "I may be a half-man but I am not a half-wit! What type of clod would arm an assassin with his own blade?" he asked. She opened her mouth as though to respond, but closed it when she found no decent answer. "I can assure you, My Lady, I have never seen that blade." He calmed a little, thinking perhaps she was beginning to see his innocence. "You don't know me well, but I can assure you that in the scenario you've painted of a bet between myself and Petyr Baelish, you'd be likely to come up rather disappointed in what you think you know."

"And why is that?" she asked, annoyed at his persistence.

"The story you were fed claims that I bet on Ser Illyn Payne in a duel on my nephew Joffrey's twelfth name day." He began, getting an affirmative nod from the woman. "There is a pertinent piece of information to this idea that your informant has neglected to give you. Ser Illyn's opponent was one Jaime Lannister." Catelyn tried to hide her sharp intake of breath. Tyrion laced his fingers together in their ties. "If there is one person in the world that I would never bet against, it would be my brother."

"Can I gag him now?" asked a man whose name Tyrion hadn't bothered to catch.

He turned to face the older man, tone sharp. "Why? Am I starting to make sense?" A rider not too far behind leaned forward on his horse and raised his eyebrows, impressed at Tyrion's reasoning.

Before long, the hill tribes had indeed found them, likely thanks to Tyrion's constant chatter. It was merely a skirmish, but as the only woman among the group, Lady Catelyn quickly found herself at the center of her own attack. "Untie me. I will not let you die this way," Tyrion found himself saying. She looked at him for the briefest of moments and saw a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes but moved not to the ropes at his wrists. "Your children need you. Cut me free."

She didn't know why, but she heard a voice in the back of her mind screaming for her to trust him. Lady Stark drew her small blade through the ropes and freed him.

Tyrion wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do now, but he'd sworn himself to protect Lady Stark and he wasn't about to fail now. He grabbed a shield from a fallen man and began bashing at the would-be attacker who came running toward her. It started as a means to disarm, but years of pent up frustration came pouring out with every blow. Their attackers were all handled and, breathless, the survivors stood on the east road for a moment, unsure if they were yet alone.

When the coast was surely clear, the bemused rider from before placed a hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "That your first kill?" Tyrion gulped and nodded, staring at the blood on his hands. "You need a woman."

Finally finding his words, he looked up at the man. "More than you know, friend."

"I'm not your friend," he corrected.

Tyrion gave an empty chuckle. "Well, you didn't give a name."

The man extended a bloodied hand to Tyrion. "That I didn't. Bronn."

"A pleasure," Tyrion responded, shaking Bronn's hand cordially in contrast to the brutality of the moments just passed.

What Tyrion hadn't expected was for his bravery to earn him reprieve with his captors. Lady Stark released him on the grounds that no guilty man would protect a person who'd taken him hostage. She even offered for one of her men to see him to his father's encampment, should they decide to do so. When no one was moved to do so, she reminded them that Tywin Lannister was easily the wealthiest man in the realm and there would likely be a reword on the little lord's head by now.

Impressed, Tyrion thought that, perhaps, she overestimated his father's esteem for him, thinking all families to be of the same level of honor as her own. Always interested in a halfway decent story, and the potential for coin, Bronn offered his services.

By the time they reached the crest of the hill overlooking the Lannister encampment, Bronn had heard quite a few of Tyrion's stories. "So, why in the fuck didn't you just kill the bitch and get it over with?" he asked, upon hearing his side of the Bran Stark matter.

"Believe it or not, I'm quite fond of Lady Catelyn," he said, tone souring. "As a matter of fact, I don't have a problem with any of the Starks."  
The sellsword scoffed indignantly. "They seem to have quite the problem with your lot."

"They do, don't they?" he sighed. In truth, he didn't blame them for mistrusting the Lannisters. The Starks were privy to a lot of sinister deeds done by Lannister hands during King Robert's rebellion, so they knew better than most what 'his lot' was capable of.

"You seem particularly troubled by that," he noted.

Tyrion clapped his companion on the arm, glancing up at him. "Troubled doesn't begin to cover it," he said.

Much to Tyrion's surprise, his father seemed quite pleased with Tyrion's presence. Trouble had begun to stir in King's Landing. King Robert met with the business end of a boar on a hunting trip. Ned Stark had begun to stick his nose where it didn't belong and had been arrested for treason. Upon hearing of his execution, Tyrion's heart sank. "And the Stark girls?" Tyrion asked, stomach twisting curiously. He relaxed a little, upon hearing that no harm had come to Sansa and Arya had seemingly escaped. But, the Starks had also captured Jaime in a bargaining attempt to reclaim their daughters and the Lannister forces found themselves in the midst of a war with all of the Would-Be kings who would unseat the newly appointed King Joffrey, believing him not to be the true heir to the throne. "That's a fair position," Tyrion shrugged, taking a long swig of his wine.

"Indeed, it may be," Tywin seethed, concluding his overview of what Tyrion had missed while in captivity, "But you will be departing from this battlefield at first light to serve our Rightful King as hand, so you would do well to quash such treacherous thoughts from your mind."

Tyrion's journey back to King's Landing was the most uneasy leg yet. His mind whirred. As Hand of the King, there would be no way that he could avoid the insipient Queen. He'd be forced to live out his own torture; His Queen, a daily reminder of things he would never have. At least, he thought, he'd be able to protect her. If whispers around the kingdom proved true, Joffrey as King was even more of a bastard than Joffrey as Prince. Given the accounts of Ned Stark's execution and the way both Lady Sansa and Cersei had begged the King to show mercy, he was more than ready to believe them. He thought back to an entire litter of pups his father had had to put down when a pair of his hounds from the same litter mated in the kennels. The lot of them were weak and distemperate and would never have been of any use to anyone. They could never be trained. They were loud. Not unlike a certain ruler. Still, even with the pups, he remembered how the bitch had turned on his father after losing all of her young. Tyrion had to brush such thoughts aside. If that had been nothing but a dog, what would Cersei do to him? Besides, the last man to hold his position lost his head for just that line of thinking. He proceeded to drown himself in a skein of wine as a distraction.

Unpopular though he may have been, King Joffrey's name day was proving to be quite the celebration. Even though there were still weeks to go before the occasion, many festivities in his honor were already underway. "At least father didn't make me master of coin," Tyrion thought. He reached the location of the day's festivities to find the royal family resting under a tent awaiting the next round of battle. Sansa was the first person to notice the newcomer, glint of his armor reflecting in the sun as she'd been staring off into the distance.

"Uncle Tyrion!" Myrcella shrieked, bouncing from her chair to her knees and flinging her arms around his neck, earning a sharp cough from her mother. At sixteen, she still possessed a great deal of childlike enthusiasm. For that, Tyrion was grateful. Many young women didn't get that chance.

"Hello, my love. You're getting more beautiful by the day," he said, nodding her back into her chair.  
Tommen's eyes grew wide. "Mother told us you were dead."

Pouring himself a goblet of wine from Cersei's table, he smiled smugly at his sister. "Regrettably not, your highness." He drank deep of the wine. Of course, she told him he was dead. His aunt Genna told them often enough when they were children that if you want something to come true, you have to say it. You have to say it.

"I'm glad you're not dead," his niece said, furrowing her brow and reaching her hand for his.

"Thank you, sweetling," he said, shaking it. He clicked his heels dramatically and bowed his head. "Prince Tommen, you grow bigger by the day. You'll be taller than The Hound soon." He looked up at the sworn sword and snorted in his throat. Joffrey drilled his fingers on his chair impatiently, perturbed at the impropriety of not being addressed first. "Congratulations on your impending nameday, Your Grace," he said.

And there it was. His moment, years in the making. He'd never thought about it. The flaw in this system was that he knew what she was going to say in response. What the fuck was he supposed to say to her? He knew there was no changing her response. He said the first thing that flew into his spinning head.

"My Lady, I am sorry for your loss."

"Loss?" Joffrey cut in. Tyrion's breath stilled in his chest. His nephew's voice had not been the response he'd expected. "Surely his death means nothing to a woman as smart as my betrothed," he said, a sinister smile curling the edges of his thin, harsh mouth.

Heart hammering, Tyrion realized he had to say more to get Sansa to speak. She was staring at him with those piercing blue eyes unfeeling and he needed her to know he cared. "Still, he was her father. Surely, given the still fresh loss of your own, you understand..." he said, his own gaze only flicking to Joffrey for the briefest of moments.

Sansa swallowed hard as bile rose in her throat with the impending placations. "I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey," she said through loosely gritted teeth, the snarl of a direwolf. There they were. Tyrion's mark felt like it had been set aflame. She knocked the wind from his lungs. She didn't mean it. The words weren't honest. His stomach jolted. His features softened. She was fighting; scratching tooth and nail to hold on to bits of herself. She was playing the game. "My father was a traitor. My mother and brother are traitors, too. I have traitor's blood in my veins, but I will soon lose my traitor name and nothing brings me greater pleasure." He nodded a little, entranced by how well she played the part. To most, there was probably no sign of her grit, but he saw it. The fire in her belly was there and he would do anything to stay near it. "I am unworthy of His Grace but I will do everything I can to prove my love to him." Sansa slid her fingers over Joffrey's delicately, demonstratively.

"Of course, My Lady. And no one would ever question that, I'm sure," he replied, stifling the urge to lash out at the King as Sansa's movement lifted her sleeve just enough to reveal finger-shaped bruises on her forearm. Knowing that now was not the appropriate time to provoke him, Tyrion sought to extract himself from the situation. "Do try to cut yourself some slack," he said, voice scarcely above a whisper as he headed back out into the sun. Even if she would never love him, he could resolve to be a friend to her.

Sansa watched him leave, the same way she had at Winterfell the year prior. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew that what had just happened was important. It was as though her heart was trying to follow him right out of her chest. "That reminds me," Joffrey said, breaking her from her thoughts. "My twenty-first nameday is fast approaching, Wife. I have the first words you ever spoke to me written down," he reminded her again, turning her hand over and lacing their fingers together, gently at first, but progressively more tightly, imprisoning her with his touch even if he couldn't lock her in the Black Cells. He leaned in to her ear and whispered, "If, come that day, those words do not appear on my body, I'll have your head on a pike with your traitor father just as soon as you've brought me an heir." To the untrained eye, it would have almost looked romantic; The Young King and his betrothed sharing an intimate moment together. Sansa shivered at the thought. "Perhaps we get a son in you before the wedding. Get it all over with sooner." His voice was rough and seething with malice. He kissed her cheek and rose, eyeing a new target for his torment across the yard. He turned back to her, a smug grin on his face. Joffrey stood before her, for a moment, one hand on the hilt of his sword, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, a constant effort to make himself seem both taller and ready to strike. "Rest well, My Lady. Until we meet again."

Sansa closed her eyes and forced a soft smile. "My father's inability to yield lost him his head," she thought, "I'd better keep mine lest I desire the same fate." When she refocused her gaze, she found herself searching the waning crowd once again.


	2. Chapter 2

As Tyrion settled into his role as interim Hand of the King, he was stunned to see just how dire the situation in King's Landing under Joffrey's reign. There was very little to be done, it seemed. If this was ever to meet a favorable end, the throne needed allies. Unfortunately for Tyrion, the only way that panned out before him was to broker a match for Mycella's hand. In a largely unprecedented move, he sat the girl down and played the scenarios out with her. The Crowned Prince of Dorne was her choice by a landslide. Her enthusiasm warmed him. He could only hope that her match was to someone who would love as brightly as she.

In short order, her passage to her future had been set and she made haste for it. Once, he remembered her telling her brother that they were children and should enjoy it and look at her now. As the royal family watched her ship make sail for Dorne, Tyrion's attention drifted to Sansa who seemed to comfort a sobbing Tommen with so much softness, he ached. Joffrey seemed to make a sneering jape at his little brother which was met with the hint of a snarl, bared teeth over hushed words. He imagined her a mother one day, protecting their own young with that same wolfish manner. Not their, as in his and hers, he corrected himself. Hers with Joffrey. He willed himself to look away.

Their party rode through the city, making their return to the Keep. Sansa would never acclimate to the difference of reception of such things in King's Landing versus Winterfell. Every time her family or any visiting dignitaries of any of the Great and Noble houses of Westeros made their way through town, they were met with respect. Sometimes it was rather less than enthusiastic, but there were never screams and jeers and such hate. It jarred her greatly to be associated with any group that could garner such vitriol from the people. When a woman holding a near, or so Sansa could only pray as her view was obscured from behind the hulking form of The Hound ahead of them, lifeless child in her arms leaped in front of their horses, the crowd's insults became screams.

Sensing an opportunity for change, Sansa reached a tentative hand for Joffrey. "Perhaps, Your Grace, you might show them some kindness? Offer aid? We have more than-"

With a sniff, he reached into the pouch at his belt. Sansa's heart raced for a moment, thinking that maybe- just, maybe- there was some hope for humanity in him; something she could work with. When his calculated calm mask curled into a malevolent grin, she faltered. Whatever he was going to do was not going to end well. "Be gone with you, beggar," he barked, tossing a handful of silver stags at the woman.

Sansa closed her eyes and leaned down against the horse's neck, digging her hands into its grey mane for comfort as she'd done with Lady's scruff, letting its softness distract her. The screams became vicious chants. Before she knew what was happening, the crowds were in a frenzy, lobbing them with whatever they could find. Joffrey shouted an order and half the guards struck into the crowd in a melee of blows, landing them indiscriminately on men, women, and children. The starved, destitute masses of King's Landing found themselves under siege for demonstrating their needs. Sansa herself was yanked from her horse and dragged by an escorting Kingsguard with her ladies maids toward the Keep. She heard a wet splat and turned to it, finding Joffrey's face caked in what could only be dung. While the image should have pleased her, it only heightened her fear. If they made it out alive, what would he do to her as an outlet for his own shame?

The crowd was thick and frenzied. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw an alley and made haste for it. She could run. She could hide. She'd been excellent at disappearing from her brothers and Arya in Winterfell. Why shouldn't she be able to slip into the dark without notice?

Because this wasn't Winterfell.

A group of men saw her pull away and chased her down the hallway. She screamed and punched as the first one to reach her tore away at her dress. "At least I can fight them," she thought. "I can scream and cry and bite and scratch and kick to my heart's content. Maybe if I anger them enough they'll kill me and Joffrey won't ever be able to touch me again." She struggled and writhed. "Don't they know Direwolves are most dangerous when they're scared," her mind coached. "Show them what a wolf can do."

The Lannisters were escorted to the keep without much further incident. Tyrion took a silent headcount. Joffrey, Cersei, Tommen... Myrcella and Sansa. "No, you shipped Myrcella off she's safe," he thought. "But Sansa isn't here." He caught the arm of a maid he knew to be in her service. "Where is Lady Sansa?" he asked, voice coming out in more of a roar than he'd intended. The woman jumped, but still told him what had happened; how she'd gotten separated and where.

"Fuck the Stark bitch!" Joffrey cursed, setting himself on the base of one of the ornate pillars of the entryway. "Let them have her! Maybe I'll send my men to finish her off..." he seethed. "This is her fault."

Tyrion balked at his accusation. "You blind, ignorant fool! If she dies," he said, struggling against the litany of threats he daren't make on her behalf, scrambling to land on something reasonable that didn't betray the dread rising within him with every second, choosing "you'll never get your Uncle Jaime back. You owe him quite a bit, you know!" The look on the king's face was pure fire and Tyrion hardly noticed it enough to revel in the reaction. He turned to The Hound and commanded. "Find her! Make sure she is unharmed."

Gesturing wildly, as though striking imaginary, ineffective blows at the rioting smallfolk, Joffrey screamed, "He is my sworn shield! He is to stay by my side-"  
"Or Your Lady's," Tyrion corrected as he rounded to be squarely in front of him, "whosoever needs his assistance more. Do you know how I know that? He is paid by the crown."

"I am the crown!" he objected.

With his mouth clamped shut, Tyrion shook his head, feeling his grip on his temper slip. He was grateful the monarch was sitting because he needed to look him in the eye. He needed each lash of his tongue to fall upon him like the legendary Harpy's Fingers of Astapor. "Little boy, you have no idea what sort of games you are playing at," he spat. "You are a petulant, distemperate ingrate, shaping up to be worse than any Mad King of lore in a much shorter time." By the time he finished speaking, he was mere inches from his nephews face with his own.

Enraged at his uncle's gall, Joffrey leaned back, teeth locked and eyes dark. "If you don't want to see mad, you'll get him back at my side. I need him here," he slammed his fist down upon the stone, sealing his demand.

Tyrion barked a laugh, truly raising his voice for the first time. "You need him here? Is it Clegane you love, not your wife to be?" Joffrey would never cease to amaze him in all the worst possible ways. He paced before him. "Need him here. For what?! To hold your hand? To wipe your ass? At this point it is your face that seems to be caked in shit, Your Grace," he said, pointing to the initiating offense that spilled needless blood.

"You can't insult-"

"Besides which," he continued, plowing right over his argument, unable to hear it for the blood rushing in his ears. "I'm sure your Lady Mother would be more than willing to coddle you as always. At this time, Lady Sansa needs him more. You," he said, hands shaking in anger, "are inside the keep and capable enough of defending yourself should the need arise since that piece of tin you use to compensate for your clear lack of manhood hangs so obviously where your cock should be!"

Face growing eerily close to a Lannister crimson, Joffrey screamed. "You are talking to a King!"

Before he knew what he was doing, the hand Tyrion had been gesturing with drew back and collided against his nephew's cheek, a blow that should have been delivered years prior that was now woefully too late to trigger any sort of learning experience. "And now I've struck a King! Did my hand fall from my wrist?" He waved demonstratively.

Joffrey remained quiet for a while, stewing in his own rage before storming toward his quarters. Tyrion, however, stayed by the entrance, pacing nervously. With every beat of his heart, he found himself working toward a dizzying panic. He wished, for the first time, that he were his bastard nephew and could run to Lady Sansa's rescue himself. He knew that, even if he managed to succeed in fighting his way to her and fighting off her would-be attackers, if she was hurt, there would be nothing he could do. He couldn't sweep her off her feet and carry her to safety. Not that the king would ever be a hero, but he could be. He could run to her aid and carry her off into the sunset. He could give her the world. In his mind, Tyrion could never be that.

Thankfully, before long, Clegane slammed himself and Sansa through the gates and deposited her, rather unceremoniously to the stone. Her cheek was cut and her lip split. Her hair uncoiled around her shoulders. Her dress was torn from her shoulder to her hip. Bruises marred her flesh, but those seemed largely too set in to be from today. She trembled and her breath heaved.

Tyrion's heart shattered at the sight of her. Still, he calmed. She was here. She was safe and she was alive. He knelt beside her. "My Lady, are you hurt?" he asked, offering a hand tentatively.

"No," she answered, surprised at the gesture. She took his hand and felt herself calm for the first time all day. They rose together and she bowed her head. "Thank you, My Lord."

Sansa found herself grateful for the King's preoccupation with the war. If he was distracted by planning what to do when Stannis Baratheon made his way to King's Landing or how Robb Stark was decimating the Lannister forces at every battle, there wasn't much room in his mind for her.

Or so she thought.

She'd managed to train her mind to keep Robb, her brother, and Robb, the so-called traitor apart in her mind. It was a feat, surely, but a person's natural survival instincts can do a great many things to keep a grip on sanity. To think about her brother, Robb, who once cleaned out a scrape on her knee and carried her back to Winterfell when she'd tripped over a lifted root in the Godswood, as the traitor, Robb, who Joffrey so often waxed poetic about killing in ways more vile than she would have ever believed, would have made Sansa lock herself away in her room and let herself die of worry. To die of worry wouldn't be the way to go. If she was going to die, she thought, it would be better to do it fighting, while she was still Sansa and a Stark and a Northerner, while there was still some of her left. Every so often, though, she remembered just how scared and tired she was, and how every time she fought back, the next time was just a little bit worse.

That afternoon was no different.

King Joffrey had called for his Lady to be brought to the throne room and bid everyone to leave them. A box, not unlike a podium used for trials, was the only thing in the sparse room, save the Iron Throne on high. The topmost sword was alleged to have once hung in the center of the room by one single horsehair; a reminder that justice and death always loomed overhead. What difference would that single sword have made, Sansa had thought originally, when the thousand that made up the throne itself were reminder enough. Standing there then with Joffrey so close to her with his own sword bare in his right hand, one damning, dangling blade was enough to incite madness.

"Once again, your family moves to make my life as difficult as they can," he spoke finally, voice low and lilting.

"Whatever my traitor brother has done, please, Your Grace, I had nothing-"

"Silence!" he snapped, beginning to pace around her. "You're nothing more than a bargaining chip, My Lady. Perhaps, if I show that I don't give a shit about what really happens to you, your brother will begin to fall in line." He slithered behind her, hips dug into her backside and his free hand in her hair, he pulled her head back to speak directly in her ear. "But what's the best way to show the young wolf?'

Sansa gasped, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know, Your Grace."

"I couldn't take that tongue," he mused, biting his lip as though trying to entice her. Her whole body shuddered at the thought. "It will prove to be useful. You can't demonstrate your fealty without it." He slid his hand from her hair down her side and clasped her wrist and brought it up to the podium. He circled her once and stopped, facing her directly. "Your left hand will be necessary for the wedding," he said, teasing his fingers over her hand. "I'll not bind myself to a hand with bloody stumps where your fingers should be," he spat, disgusted by the thought. "But what about your right? They mightn't believe that I do mean business for just a finger, but the whole hand should do nicely." He reached for her other hand and brought it to the surface as well, resting his blade across both of her wrists, trapping her there. "That is what they did to my Uncle Jaime, is it not?" he asked, as flippant as though he were asking her the time.

"I don't know, Your Grace," she said quietly, voice beginning to tremble.

He leaned his weight against the sword. The sharp edge began to sting the skin and Sansa thought it might draw blood. "Just what do you know, then?" All Sansa could do was stammer. "Speak up," he prompted.

"Please, stop!"

Joffrey gave a wicked smile and eased the pressure, sheathing his sword. He licked his lips and came around to her side. He pulled out a dagger from his side and dragged it up and down her arm, tip scratching at her soft flesh. "I could always take strips of your flesh. Now, I may not be one of the Boltons," his eyes shone, a glint of admiration for their particular brand of torture belaying his intention to Sansa, "but I do think I remember their sigil well enough to make an attempt at a flay. Do you think your mother would know your pretty pale skin?" He brought the small blade to her chest. "Not as intimately as I do, of course..." he smiled, pressing himself flush against her. Sansa sniffed indignantly as her stomach roiled at his touch, "but do you think she would recognize? What would Lady Catelyn do? Do you think she would die of shock?" His face was nearly upon hers. Sansa could smell the honeyed mead on his breath. It sickened her. Everything about him sickened her. Everything about King's Landing sickened her. "Let's find out. But where to start?" He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and turned her around, slamming her against the block he'd intended to use to take her hand. "Your back might be good," he dug the blade into the fabric and tore open the thick fabric the color of cornflowers, revealing her slip. He pressed the steel to her skin. "There'd be no hope of you wearing pretty, daring dresses from The Reach, which is a shame because you do have the body for it," as he pressed himself against her to trap her, Sansa could have sworn she felt... no. No, he couldn't possibly be aroused by this. This torment could not bring him that type of pleasure. She shook the thought from her head, not wanting to imagine that he'd do that to her too after whatever he had planned for right now, "but you're a modest, Northern girl, aren't you, Lady Sansa? That might not be a reminder enough for you." He tore the dress open lower. Sansa grabbed at it, willing the tears that streamed from her eyes to go back from whence they came. He didn't deserve her tears. "Perhaps the back of your creamy thighs? You'd never be able to sit or stand or walk or fuck without the thought of me..." He grazed his rough palm down to where he'd intended to cut and grabbed. "I quite like that. What do you think?" Sansa cried out in protest, but Joffrey clapped his hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

The door burst open. "Just what do you think you're doing? This woman is to be your wife!"

"Who do you think you are?" he asked, turning to face the intruder with a growl. "I specifically said-"

Storming towards them deliberately, Tyrion fumed. "Hand of the King, boy, and the only person keeping you from doing something we both know you'll regret." He took a deep breath, deciding that, perhaps, screaming at the King with the doors open wide wouldn't send the right message, no matter how little he truly cared for perception at the moment. He lowered his voice. "Think about this. This is the woman you are supposed to love. Even I thought you had more decency than this," he said, voice heavy with contempt. He wedged himself between the betrothed couple, Joffrey stepping back in revulsion at the touch. Sansa seemed to still slightly, grateful to be out of the moment. Tyrion turned to her, gently coaching, "Lady Sansa, I beg of you, return to your chambers."

"I don't care if you're the many-faced God, you little hobgoblin," he sneered. Sansa stepped back, hand subconsciously grasping Lord Tyrion's vest to pull him back with her. Joffrey gestured with his knife at his uncle, "I'll kill you too."

"Do it, your grace," Tyrion challenged, unmoved. "If it will stop you from placing undue harm on your innocent bride-to-be, go right ahead. But remember," he warned, furrowing his brow, "you're not doing so well with your advisors. How will it look if, in your time as King, you go through hands as though they're disposable?" He remembered then that he was only acting hand until his father saw fit to grace King's Landing with his presence and smiled, realizing just what that meant. "I can promise you, boy, the next one won't be as respectful of you as you are of Lady Sansa."

Displeased at the suggestion of needing guidance in any matters, and completely missing Tyrion's warning of Tywin's own special brand of cruelty, Joffrey's temper shortened. "You question my authority? That is treason, Lord Hand," he reminded. "Lady Sansa knows well how I feel about traitors. Since you're family, I'll show some mercy." He paused, feigning the suggestion that thoughts did indeed live inside his vindictive mind. "You may choose the manner of your execution. How do you want to die, Uncle?"

"At the age of eighty," Tyrion scoffed, rolling his eyes. He was certainly not going to die at the hands of his warped nephew. "Warm in my own bed with a belly full of wine and a girl's mouth around my cock." Joffrey closed the gap between them, pressing his dagger against the base of Tyrion's throat. He heard Sansa gasp audibly behind him. "You'll do well, Your Grace, to remember just how well the last King who tried to rule with fire and fury did on that throne, or has your Uncle Jaime never seen fit to tell you how that story ends?"

"You will not threaten me," he roared, pressing the blade in harder.

Tyrion remained calm. "I am not threatening you. I am enlightening you. If I were threatening you," he pushed the blade away dismissively, "you'd certainly know it." He turned to face the trembling girl who clutched at the scraps of her dress in an attempt to retain some modesty. He motioned for her to walk beside him and, casting a shaky glance between the two men, she did as he suggested. When they were out of the throne room and moving through the halls to the residence, where awaited a crowd of the household staff. Before they were in earshot, Tyrion finally spoke. "Lady Sansa, do you want me to get you out of this match?" He was met with tense silence. "I believe that there is a way-"

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at him suspiciously. Even though something within her tried to soothe her into trusting him, her mind screamed against it. He was a Lannister, after all, and no Lannister could possibly mean to do her anything but harm. She kept her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the click of her heels against the tile. "I'm loyal to my beloved Joffrey, my one true-"

"Alright, but if you change your mind," Tyrion said, not sure if he wanted to add that he'd be there, that she could trust him, that he lo- No. Definitely not that. Either way, her steel impressed him. He thought, perhaps, she might survive Joffrey yet. "In the meanwhile, please," he turned to one of Sansa's chambermaids and directed, "escort Lady Sansa to my chambers. Draw her a hot bath. Bring her whatever she desires. Do not let her out of your sight. Fuss over her." He reached a hand up for Sansa's, noting how soft they were, then cursing himself for noticing. "I'll send protection for you as well."

"My Lord, that is not necessary," Sansa protested.

Tyrion shook his head, sadly. "I believe it is, My Lady. My nephew may be King and your betrothed, but I need you to understand..." He clasped her hand between his and looked deeply into her eyes, "there is kindness here, should you wish it. The King will not think to find you there. Any bride of his would not seek comfort from the Demon Monkey." Sansa's breath hitched. She hated how rudely people spoke of him for his physical stature. Surely, they could come up with a more damnable offense than his height, not that she could come up with anything worse than his House. Moreso, she hated the sadness in his eyes as he used the pejoratives of the people against himself. "Relax, My Lady. Stay as long as you like," he said, noting her unease and sent her on her way, going off in search of someone he could trust to guard the door against Joffrey's goons.


	3. Chapter 3

In the weeks leading up to Stannis Baratheon's attack, Sansa continued to see very little of the King. In the moments she did, she noticed that the hand was never too far behind. She wasn't quite sure what he was playing at or what exactly he knew, but she was secretly grateful, whether it was vigilance or strictly coincidence. The night of the battle itself was no different. Even though she had been ordered to stay with the Queen regent and the ladies of the house, the King had sent a member of his guard to fetch her and bring her up to the battlements to meet with him. As she walked, the sounds of men preparing for battle quickened her throat.

"I hope they sack the city," she thought. "I liked King Robert well enough. Stannis is his brother, surely he can't be worse than Joffrey."

When she reached the top of the walls, Joffrey was already there, hand grasping the hilt of his sword proudly. She curtseyed before him and he bade her no such efforts. Instead, he reached for her arm and walked with her, as they'd done all those months ago before she truly knew who he was. But this time was different. Her hands shook from fear, not excitement. His touch wasn't gentle, but firm, fingernails digging half-moons into her arm. When he leaned in to whisper into her ear, the words still sent shivers all over her body, to be sure. They were no longer pleasurable, but menacing. "If I die in this battle, my men have direct orders to make sure that you're comforted," he said, voice dripping with poorly obscured meaning. "Often. As frequently as they can. In any way they choose." He stopped. He turned her to face him and pressed a fierce, gnashing kiss to her lips. "If I live, expect my presence in your bedchamber forthwith," he said, puffing his chest out.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered, not sure which fate she liked least.

Joffrey seemed convinced enough and smiled. "This is my new sword, Widow's Wail," he said, pulling the blade out and displaying it before her. "Do you like it?"  
It was a marvel, she admitted, long, nimble, the dark grey, obviously Valyrian steel folded with ripples of red throughout. The center of the garish gold pommel was inlaid with a ruby the size of her fist. Even though she'd never seen it before, something about it seemed eerily familiar. "Yes, Your Grace," she said, trying not to show how uneasy she felt.

"Kiss it," he commanded.

She looked at him, unsure of his intention. "Your Grace?"

"Kiss it," he repeated. "For luck." Leaning forward, she obeyed. Joffrey pressed the edge against her face and moved it slightly, knicking her lip. She hissed, drawing back to stop the bleeding. "Careful, My Lady. Valyrian steel. Sharp as sin. I've quite a bit of knowledge of it."

Of course, she thought. Please do tell me all about it while the city is under attack. "Is that so, Your Grace?"

Unaware or uncaring of her indifference, he continued. "Indeed. This one is a little more powerful than the last piece I possessed. That one couldn't even cut down a direwolf pup," he said, slashing at the air.

"Your Grace?"

"Sometimes," he said menacingly, "it's more humane to just slice the throat of the broken than to let it suffer in the cold, don't you think?"

A direwolf pup, broken... What had he done to Bran? Her eyes flickered for the briefest moment before hardening to a piercingly stoic glare. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Do you know where they got the steel for my blade?" Joffrey asked, bouncing a little, pleased to be rattling her.

"No, your grace."

He sauntered to her and stuck it out. "Put your hand on it," he said. She stayed her hand in her dress. Joffrey reached and moved for her. "Put your hand on it. Doesn't it sing to you?" Sansa gulped. It did. She just couldn't bring herself to listen to its song. She didn't want to know why it made her so uneasy. "The last life it took was your father's, so it should." Sansa pulled her hand away as though burned. "That's right, My Lady. Your father's sword. Ice, didn't he call it?" Joffrey smiled, admiring the blade but casting the occasional glance to her. "So needlessly large we managed to forge two new swords from it. One for me, one for my uncle Jaime, when he returns. I can only hope that, in its new form, it'll bring me the blood of your brother and your mother as well." Sansa felt the sick rise in her throat and took a step back. "Maybe even some more of yours. That way, when one day it belongs to our son, he'll remember just how powerful his father was."

"A son," she thought. "Over my dead body."

From beside her, a warmer, friendly voice aired concern. "My Lady, shouldn't you be in seclusion with the Queen Regent and the other Ladies?" Tyrion asked, surveying his nephew suspiciously. "Surely His Grace wouldn't wish any harm to befall his wife to be." He turned back to Sansa and saw the fresh cut on her lip. He was too late again. Again and again.

Her heart hammered in her chest. He saved her again. But this time, with that sword in Joffrey's hand, she worried that he may actually kill them both. With the battle ahead, it would be easy to say that they were both killed in the action and be rid of Tyrion's interruptions and her traitor family. Quickly, she came to a decision.

"I, actually, came out to kiss His Grace good luck," she said, pressing herself against him and, this time, allowed herself to be the aggressor, knowing that her traitor's blood was dripping against his mouth, hoping it tasted like rage and ice and bitter rejection.

"Until we meet again," he said, wiping the at his mouth with his sleeve distastefully and turning from the pair.

Tyrion approached her delicately. "Lady Sansa-"

"I pray for your safe return, My Lord," she interrupted, noting Joffrey's lingering presence at the end of the hall wishing to overhear them and added, "Just as I pray for the King's." She nodded to direct his attention to the eavesdropper, then softened her expression, hoping that he understood which half of that statement she truly meant. Either way, she'd pay for that later. Of course, Joffrey would survive, she thought. The worst ones always do.

As she retreated into the Keep, Tyrion watched her go. His green eyes shone with admiration in the torchlight and he wondered, just maybe, if she harbored any fondness for him at all. It almost seemed... but no. No, that couldn't be. She was to marry Joffrey. He couldn't endanger her life by letting himself harbor that thought.

Perhaps, he thought, the Gods will be kind tonight and the King will fall in battle. No, more likely I do, he corrected himself. More likely and probably a kindness for all involved.

Had Tyrion known just how close he would come to death that night, he mightn't have thought so callously on the subject. He might have admitted to Sansa, just shown her that he had... cared. Still, to fall in a battle they would go on to win because of his help and the remembrance of the Mad King's fondness for wildfire caches would have been one thing. To have a member of the Kingsguard strike him twice once the fighting was over was something he hadn't expected. When the first stab hit his right side, he'd been shocked. The second blow, a slice probably meant to sever his head in two, came to land, he faded away almost instantly, falling into someone's arms. Even as his mind faded to black, Sansa's face came to him. I pray for your safe return, My Lord. Her words swirled in his mind over and over.

A day after the battle, his former squire, newly knighted for his heroics in battle had come to find him. He'd carried him to the Maesters immediately after the blow, even though he hadn't been able to get there in time to stop it from happening. When he'd returned to the infirmary to inquire after him and tell him about his new title, they'd said he'd been taken to his quarters. Podrick hadn't expected such a quick recovery but was glad to hear it. When he reached the Hand's chambers, he knocked and was greeted by an unfamiliar voice. Tywin Lannister had returned during the night and ousted Tyrion from his duties. He gave the young man directions to Tyrion's new room and, when he finally got there, he found a dire situation. Tyrion lay in his bed, face wrapped in filthy bandages, still in his shirt from the battle.

Apparently, the wound on his side didn't merit attention as it had stopped bleeding before they got there. Tyrion groaned in pain, sweat beading on his forehead and chest. Podrick eyed the pots of salves and elixirs on the table. They each bore instructions addressed to Tyrion.

They expected him to take care of the situation himself? No, the knight thought. No, they've left him here to die.

So, he set to work. Podrick eased the Lord into a seated position, met with an agonized groan, but Tyrion made no motion to wake. He lifted the man's dirty tunic off and was met with a rather disgusting wound. He began to clean it out first. As he surveyed the man for signs of infection past the obvious fever, he caught sight of what he thought were the distinctive raised lines, but they weren't. They were a lighter pink and too far away from the wound, up near his shoulder as opposed to by his hip. His curiosity got the better of him and he had to know. His mark. As soon as he read the words, his heart broke for the man. No wonder he'd been so specific about care for the future Queen Consort. "Oh, milord..." he sighed. He continued caring for the man and, once his wounds were dressed and he'd replaced tunic with a fresh one from his trunk, he set off to find an additional pair of eyes. He reached the door he sought and knocked lightly. It was early, he knew, but most of the ladies of court rose early. Thankfully, his assumption was correct as a still sleepy voice called for his entrance.

Raising from the edge of the chaise on which she sat, teacup grasped between her hands, Sansa gave a slight curtsey. Pod bowed his head, "Lady Sansa, I have a question for you," he admitted hesitantly.

The man looked familiar to her, Lord Tyrion's squire if memory served, but she wasn't entirely sure she had his name. "Ser Podrick, am I correct?" she asked.

"Yes, milady," he smiled, pleased at her acknowledgment, then cleared his throat, wringing his trembling hands. "Lady Sansa, if someone had shown you kindness and they'd been gravely injured and abandoned by their family, would you help them? If you could, I mean?"

Sansa gazed upon him with careful scrutiny. Gravely injured? "I suppose so, yes. Why?"

With a nod, he looked at the ground. She seemed so gentle and he was suddenly ashamed of asking this of her, even though he knew it was the right decision. "Could you follow me, milady?" he asked, gesturing to the door.

The request was too bizarre to be disingenuous. Sansa nodded her assent and moved to follow him. The pair traveled through the corridors together silently. Pod rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was fairly certain that what he had asked wasn't something that would be seen kindly from the Lannisters, but at the moment he didn't much care. Lord Tyrion needed help.

They reached his chambers and Sansa's breath froze in her chest.

"What happened?" she asked, crossing to the man's bedside and taking in the sight of his battered frame.

"He was attacked in battle by one of our own men," Podrick explained. "I managed to get him to safety and, when I returned to visit him, this is what I found." He gestured to the bandages and bottles. "The maester left all of this here with instructions, but I'm not learned, milady. I don't know what most of this says." Sansa picked up a small blue bottle of a serum she knew to be meant to dress wounds. If he wasn't 'learned' as he said, she could only hope he'd used it properly. If he'd offered this orally, he might have done far worse damage than good. "Could you help me and perhaps sit with him from time to time?" he asked, finally.

Sansa sighed, realizing just how much trouble her soon-to-be husband would cause over this. "Ser Podrick..." Sansa wanted to. She did. She hated seeing Lord Tyrion like this when he'd never been anything but kind to her.

"Just, to help me," he said. "I'd consider it a huge favor and I would be in your debt. And perhaps to show some kindness to someone who's seen very little of it." Sansa began to soften a little. She sat on the stool by the man's bed and carefully surveyed him. "You've never been cruel to him and I'm afraid I'm the only one who truly cares, but I see kindness in you, Lady Sansa." Podrick stepped a little closer to her and found himself face to face with her for the first time. "You're not like the others."

"I suppose," she agreed.

For the day that followed, Sansa and Podrick rotated shifts staying by his side. She thought about all of the times he'd seen to her well being when no one else had. It was as though something kept drawing them together. Something stronger than the fact that he was her insipient husband's uncle. Something personal. Tyrion had begun to stir and groan, fever returning overnight. She refused to leave, even as Pod came in for his turn. Sansa would have sworn she heard- no. He couldn't have.

Still, she stayed by his side and didn't flinch when he unconsciously took her hand.

From behind her, the knight smiled, refreshed in his realization that he made the right call.

Before long, the dressing on his side needed changing. Sansa went to lift the hem of his tunic dutifully. "Oh, no, milady. I'll get the wound on his side," Pod interrupting, not wanting her to see what lay mere inches above it, "but would you perhaps get one of the serving girls to fetch some cool water." The young woman did as she was asked and, when she returned, he had finished.

In an effort to break his fever, Sansa doused a clean rag in the water and placed it on his brow. It appeared to ease him some, so she began to relax some. She'd never been particularly skilled in healing, but she had certainly been proficient in the basics. She folded her arms on the mattress and rested her head atop them. Sansa wondered again what exactly had made Podrick come for her. All she knew was that she was grateful he had. It had been almost 36 hours and no one had come looking for her.

Tyrion began grasping at the sheets restlessly. Sensing his urgency, she slid her hand beneath his and held it still, hoping he'd feel her presence and calm as she had when he'd taken hers after the riots at flea bottom. He did, a little, but not as much as she'd hoped. She found herself studying his hands and arms; The way the pronounced veins branched up to his surprisingly toned biceps, his sunkissed skin, how nicely his fingers fit between hers as though they were meant to be. She shook herself from her thoughts. No, his hands were his and didn't belong with hers.

"Lady Sansa?" came a weak, groggy voice from beside her head and she gave a start, turning to see Tyrion staring at her in disbelief.

Sansa's shock turned to relief. "It's good to see you awake, Lord Tyrion." Truthfully, she was worried that he mightn't do so and the thought was becoming more and more distressing. The bandage covering the gash on his face obscured large swaths of his expression which troubled her as well. She couldn't get any sort of a sense of his emotion.

He withdrew his hand from hers shyly. "My Lady, I thought..."

"I don't really know why I'm here, My Lord," she interrupted. "You're kind to me and I was told you needed help. I was awful to you before and I just..." Sansa trailed off. "I wanted to apologize. And I wanted to thank you. For everything." She grasped his hand a bit tighter. "You've been a great comfort, My Lord."

Breathing shallow through his slightly parted lips, Tyrion finally answered, "My Lady, you need not apologize nor thank me, but for now," he said hesitantly, "I thank you from the deepest reaches of my heart, but I ask that you leave." He closed his eyes and twisted away from her gently. "I do not wish for you to see me like this."

Sansa's heart panged. He seemed so upset. She hadn't meant to cause him any more harm. That was the last thing she wanted. "My Lord?"

"Please, My Lady," he whispered, refusing to look at her.

She stood on shaky legs. She didn't want to leave him. But she supposed she should do as she was bid. "Of course, My Lord. I'll let Ser Podrick know that you're alert." She turned for the door and, when her hand was upon the latch she turned back to find him staring at her, as though convinced she was a figment of his imagination. "Get well soon."

"Thank you, My Lady," he said, averting his eyes once more.

The next time Sansa saw Tyrion was on Joffrey's nameday. They'd been seated beside each other at the large round table brought into the hall and her stomach had wrenched every time he turned away to avoid her gaze. The hours crept by in awkward anticipation. There had been many discussions about soul markings. Both of the Lannister siblings avoided the topic thoroughly. Sansa asked polite questions of Lord Tywin of his, since he and his wife had been so young when they met. She and Prince Tommen lamented the anxiety not knowing left. Joffrey sat silently, glaring at her the whole time.

The bells chimed midnight. Nothing. Unfeeling of any sensations on his own skin, Joffrey stood and began to disrobe in a frenzy. The dinner attendees were all too taken aback to protest or understand fully what was going on. All, that is, except Cersei who seemed neither surprised or outraged. She hung her head, knowing all too well what was likely behind it. When he finished, standing there in his small clothes, he searched every inch of his skin for even a single word.

Tyrion snorted into his cup, willing himself not to allow for any amusement to show on his face. No mark. What a surprise. He truly loves no one. The realization of the implication dawned on him and his eyes darted between Sansa, who seemed frozen beside him, and the raging young monarch, eyes alight and seething as he hurled toward her.

"You don't love me, you treacherous little cunt!" he shouted, grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging her from her chair, Tyrion's instinctive reach for her useless against the force. For the first time, the room bore witness to his violence against his betrothed firsthand. Tommen watched in abject horror, suddenly seeing his previously idolized older brother truly for what he was.

Sansa sobbed, screaming "Stop!" over and over, begging him for mercy she knew too well would never come. He threw the girl to the floor in a heap, leveling a sharp kick to her hip, leveling her. She trembled and wept as his attacks kept coming

"Joffrey, enough!" Tyrion raged, standing with his dinner knife clutched in his palm.

"I'll not have a wife who is not devoted to me!" he shouted at his uncle, turning to face him, face and chest red and heaving.

Tywin shook his head, cold eyes glowering at him. "That's not how this works, boy. The markings are for you." He gnashed his teeth. He bore no pleasant ideations for the girl, but to watch the boy wail at her so callously wasn't something he could do. "What this means is you don't love her, not that she doesn't love you."

Calmly, Cersei walked around the table, voice even and smooth as ever. "My Love, it is not the end of the world," she assured. "Others have handled this situation in the past. You will as well." She reached a deceptively gentle hand for her son's arm.

He pushed her away. "I don't care! If there's no hope of devotion-"

"I won't let you do this!" Tyrion bellowed, walking toward the boy with an unmatched fury. "You cannot hurt her!"

"And why not?" Joffrey challenged.

Tyrion's voice lowered to something reminiscent of a growl as he searched for the way to get around this. "She's..." he stammered. "I..." All eyes were on him now. "Because she doesn't belong with you." When he finally realized what he had to do, he dug his fingers into the neck of his shirt and pulled it to the side, revealing the words that felt burning hot on his chest. And there they were, I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. "She belongs with me."

From the floor, Sansa couldn't see the interaction, but she could only assume. She was Tyrion's soulmate. Why hadn't he told her? Her pulse raced and her breath hastened. She could be free of this. She could be free of Joffrey.

The king read the words over a few times before his eyes finally met his uncle's. "You're not serious? Oh!" He loosed a howl of laughter. "Oh, this is even better," he said, turning to Sansa. He pointed at the man who stood, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. He'd ruined everything and now they were both done for. "This is an even bigger humiliation than a traitor family and certainly worse than the good clean death I was going to give you! It's all there, isn't it?" He turned back to his uncle and gave him a little shove. "I should have known. You've done nothing but simper and coo since you arrived. And you've known for years. You haven't been twenty-one for some time now, have you, Uncle?" He was looking to provoke him. He towered over Tyrion but now, Tyrion had the power. Joffrey was letting his emotions get the better of him. He took a breath and patiently waited for the king to rant himself out of thoughts. He could handle the boy's japes as long as they stayed directed at him. "Years, you've known that your soulmate is devoted to me. What a wonderful gift you've given me, Uncle!" He laughed, turning from him. Tyrion flinched, moving to come between Joffrey and Sansa. He reached past him and lifted the startled young woman from the floor and thrust her against his uncle, who offered the most stability he could muster and caught her from falling back down. "There you go, My Lady, your handsome white knight here to save you. Enjoy your nights at the hands of the drunken imp." He reached for the decanter of wine on the table and rose it in a mocking toast. "May he treat you half as well as I have. You deserve each other." He downed the rest of the wine and stormed out, leaving the dinner guests to their own scattered thoughts.

Cersei followed her son. Tywin asked Sansa if she would be willing to forgo marriage to Joffrey in favor of Tyrion. When she agreed, more emphatically than any of them had expected, he told her he'd have her things and Tyrion's moved to a larger set of rooms immediately. He motioned for the still bewildered Tommen to follow him, meaning to have a talk with the boy about his brother's outburst and why it was not to be repeated, regardless of the reason.

Tyrion and Sansa were left alone, staring silently at each other. A million thoughts swirled through each of their minds, but the one overwhelming thought they both shared was of one another.

For Sansa, it meant relief. It meant safety. It meant a chance. And then suddenly, fear of all of the things that were to come hurdling toward her at once. What if Tyrion wound up being just like the rest? He hadn't shown any indication of that, but he was a Lannister, after all. He had never been anything but kind, but he had had so many opportunities to say something since his arrival in King's Landing. But he'd had a month, one full turn of the moon since the day they'd first spoken. She bit at her lip as she stared at him, unable to find the words she desperately wished to ask.

For Tyrion, it was panic. It was the overwhelming realization of what he'd just done, and how much danger he may have put them both in, only for it to end with no objections. Most of all, though, it was Sansa, in front of him, and now they were to have a chance and he could love her openly and he could finally breathe.

They walked slowly at each other's sides to their new chamber, in a secluded corner of the residence. He opened the door and ushered her inside. Sansa looked around at their new rooms. They were larger and much more grandiose than hers, everything crimson and gold, with an attached bath, a seating area, a small dining table, a patio overlooking the garden, and of course, to the left of the patio, the sleeping quarters were arranged, the bed on a high platform with steps all around and beautiful brocade curtains to divide it from the rest of the space. She found herself in the center of the space, staring at Tyrion, wordlessly imploring him to speak; to give any sort of explanation for what had just happened.

He stared up at her, backlit in the small hours by the full moon outside their window, features aglow. "I'm so sorry, My Lady." He crossed to her, gesturing for her to move to the settee and speak to him. "I'm so sorry, please."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, voice hardly a whisper. "For over a year now, I've been tortured by this animal and you said nothing." Beginning to regain her footing, she tried again, stare piercing through him. "For over a year now, I've been battered and beaten and threatened and you could have stopped it? It was that easy," she gestured lamely in the direction she presumed they'd come from. "For over a year, I have been stripped of my mind, my body, and my soul by this horrible, monstrous cretin and you theoretically could have done something about it all along. Instead, you watched idly for a whole month." Sansa crossed her arms and dug her fingernails into her elbows. When Tyrion moved not to speak, she continued, shaking her head in exhausted disbelief as she blinked wasted tears from where they clung to her dark lashes, obscuring her vision temporarily. "I thought you were brave. I thought you were someone I could trust." She let out a puff of breath, waiting for any sort of response from Tyrion. "I guess not," she resigned, crossing to the bed and drawing the curtain tightly behind her.

"My Lady, I am sorry. Please-"

Sansa noted that Tyrion's voice sounded vaguely tear strangled and nearer the curtain than she'd like. Good, she thought. Let his heart ache the way my body does. "Just leave me be," she groaned, guarding her side gingerly and easing back on the bed and staring at the ceiling. She hated to harbor such hurtful thoughts when, truthfully, he'd done nothing wrong, but she was so frustrated by the entire situation. Now what? She was stuck in King's Landing and marrying a Lannister. The kindest Lannister, to be sure, but a Lannister nonetheless. A Lannister who has saved you countless times, and just saved your life whether tonight or a year down the line, she thought, I'll have to apologize in the morning, but for now, I just want to ignore the whole thing.

"My Lady? I-" Tyrion started, brushing his fingers against the thick curtains briefly before turning and finding himself on the settee alone. He propped his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and allowed a few hot, angry tears to stream from his tired green eyes. Having had enough of that, he pawed the offending wetness from his eyes, and popped the top from a decanter of wine and sought to drown his sorrows. Of course, this was how his soulmate finding out that her words lived on his body would go. Of course. There was never any other way.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa lay awake, tossing and turning through the night. She was so frustrated. Of course, that had been why he'd taken such specific care. He cared for her. Of course, he did. And he'd never even suggested it. She was sure he was afraid. She was sure... She was sure... She wasn't sure what she was sure of anymore, except that Lord Tyrion was snoring in the same room as her. She slid from the bed and peeked her head out between the curtains. He looked so cold, curled into himself on the piece of furniture that was much too small to be considered a bed clutching the wine tightly to himself. She took a soft blanket and a pillow from the bed and walked toward him, removing the vessel from his hands and placing it on the table, then covered him, tucking the pillow beneath his head. At least now, she thought, he doesn't seem so fitful. She looked at the red line that dragged across his face, no longer appearing to be open.

The balcony seemed to call to her, so she ventured outside, leaving the door slightly ajar in case it would lock behind her. She sat on the ground for who knows how long until the sky morphed from deep navy to grey to pink, yellow and finally blue as the sun crept over the horizon. She wondered if Arya was awake and watching the same sunrise. Or Jon. The thought warmed her a little. Sansa wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them tightly, resting her chin upon them and trying, uselessly, to find a position that didn't cause the new bruising on her ribs to ache. But that was behind her. It seemed fitting that she watched the sunrise as a new chapter of her life dawned. A life with Tyrion. A life with a man who, by all possibilities might have loved her.

I'm his soulmate, she thought to herself. I'm his soulmate and he didn't tell me. She thought about the first time she saw him and how he'd kept her attention, even though they never spoke. Later, at the feast, how he'd dashed from the room when her engagement to Joffrey had been announced. The first time they'd spoken, just a few weeks earlier at the tourney kicking off the celebrations for Joffrey's name day. In all the commotion the night prior, she hadn't gotten the chance to see her words on his chest. She tried to remember what the first thing they'd said to one another was. She remembered that Joffrey had spoken between them. Hers were probably something brutal about loving Joffrey and her family being traitors but all she could hear was Tyrion's voice in her head saying "My Lady, I'm sorry for your loss." She could hear his first words to her so clearly in her head that it startled her. She knew she was years away from her mark, so she'd have to push the idea aside, for now, but what if...

Tyrion awoke with a start, momentarily forgetting about his sudden change of rooms. He took in the lodgings carefully, trying to remember what brought him there, and noticed a letter slid under the door. He rose to pick it up and the room spun, sending him back to his seat. He tried again, successfully this time. He broke the wax seal, only to find a grave reminder of what he'd done. The note was from his father, congratulating him on his pending nuptials and the lovely bride he'd found, alerting him that they were to be wed in three days time to give appropriate time for a honeymoon before King Joffrey's wedding to the Tyrell girl. He rubbed his eyes harshly. Of course, Tywin had a backup plan. As everything prior that caused the relocation swam back into his mind, he wondered when he'd found a blanket and a pillow and... the curtains were open, the bed was empty, the door to the balcony... He moved toward it, trying desperately to remain unheard.

"It appears I will have to continue to apologize to you, My Lord," Sansa spoke, not even bothering to turn around to investigate the noise. She was acutely aware of the man in the room. "Last night, you took a great personal risk for someone who has hardly shown you the time of day. Largely out of self-preservation, mind you," she covered her face in her folded arms, desperate to hide her exhaustion, "what little self there is left. I don't know how to react."

Sighing at his inept attempt at secrecy, Tyrion stepped out into the dawn, proffering the letter to Sansa. "Well, it appears we'll have little time to react. We're to be wed in just three days time."

"Oh," she said, not bothering to read it, only turning it over in her hands numbly.

Finally allowing himself to truly watch her for the first time, Tyrion found himself embarrassed. The young woman, even in her disheveled state- Had she slept at all?- was even more breathtaking than he'd ever allowed himself to think. Her long, auburn hair flowed freely against the beautiful golden gown with the black stags running along the bottom hem, clearly meant for Joffrey. Her striking blue eyes, so solemn now, still stirred his pulse as he wished for her to look at him. Her pale skin seemed to shimmer in the newly risen sun. He was completely dazzled by her. "My father is, apparently, eager to see his only viable heir wed to a suitable match and looks forward to our continued good fortune in the Lannister Dynasty," he quoted.

Sansa was at a loss. All she could do was repeat her previous statement. "Oh." It didn't seem as flippant as the first one, but it still wasn't the enthusiasm one hoped for when discussing marriage with a beautiful woman they cared deeply for.

"Indeed," Tyrion said, circling to kneel in front of her. "My Lady, I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but Sansa, please understand," he urged, willing her to look at him, "you are safe now. I want nothing from you. I only know that I could not allow-"

Unable to take his incessant rambling anymore, Sansa interrupted him. "You love me. You say you want nothing, My Lord, but-"

"My Lady, please listen to me," he said, finally earning her attention. "You are more than I could ever have hoped for. You are more beautiful than I deserve. You are kinder than should be allowed to exist within this city." She rolled her eyes, disinterested in his praise. Praise meant nothing to her. She wanted something honest. Something that didn't sound like empty words meant to placate Joffrey's broken toy. "What I need for you to understand is whatever I may feel for you is not important. I have had years to come to terms with the fact that the person that the Gods have chosen for me will not love me." Sansa furrowed her brows at his words. He corrected himself. "Cannot love me. I saw my fourteen-year-old nephew's name scarred into my flesh and did not smart. It followed my life's trajectory. You may already know this to be true," he admitted, not allowing himself meet her now focused stare, "but my family is not particularly fond of me and to be destined to fall in love with someone who could never want me seemed fitting. But at this point, my stance on the matter is a little more clear from the outside. I wish to know how you feel about this," he said, finally locking eyes with her and cursing himself for not looking up sooner.

"My Lord-" Sansa started, softly.

"Tyrion, please. Just Tyrion," he corrected.

The girl gave a half smile. "Tyrion," she restarted, noting the strangeness of the informal greeting but not finding it as terrifying as she'd have expected, "I doubt very much that I will be able to live up to the expectations you've set. I will do my very best not to disappoint you, My Lo-" he tilted his head, gently reminding her,

"Tyrion. I don't want this to be any harder on either of us than it has to be."

He reached out, eyes asking permission he couldn't bring his voice to. When she didn't protest, he lay his hand atop hers, "I promise you one thing, My Lady." He held her gaze a moment longer. "I won't ever hurt you."

Sansa swallowed hard and Tyrion revoked his hand. "I believe that." The pair remained in fragile silence for some time before Sansa spoke again. "May I..." she gestured to the spot on his chest where his mark resided. "May I?" she asked.

Realizing what she had asked, Tyrion shook himself back into the present. "Oh. I suppose you've every right to," he said, pulling his tunic aside and baring his chest with her handwriting upon it for her to do with as she pleased. "They're your words, after all." Tentatively, and desperately trying not to betray the throb in her side with so much as a wince, she repositioned herself to move closer, first reading them over once, twice, five, ten times. She couldn't believe it. This poor man had really been branded with 'I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.' For years before he'd ever lain eyes on her, he had to have been in such pain, wrapping his head around the different ways that could be said. Her eyes flicked toward his for a moment, wondering how many times they might have turned sad over her before he even had a face to match to the words and how tortured he must have felt hearing her say similar things over and over. She wondered if he'd known she never once meant them. She raised her hand slowly and as gently as she could muster trailed her fingers across them. Every hair on Tyrion's body stood on end. "My Lady, I only have one regret in this whole matter."

"Which is?" she asked, genuinely wondering how he could have any regrets in that moment.

"That I did not come to you sooner and grant you some choice in the matter. Rest assured, my lady, that from this point forward, at no part will I let your agency be stripped away from you again." For some reason, Sansa believed that, too. Or at least, believed that he would try. "Now, it appears that you are again chained to whom-"

"I'll not resist this," she insisted.

"My Lady-"

She sighed. "Sansa. If you're going to insist on my use of your name, I can only hope that you'll do the same."

Tyrion gave in easily, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Alright then, Sansa. I will not force another moment upon you," he said, rising from his knees to ready himself for the day. "I suspect that, for the next three days, we'll see very little of each other. But after our wedding day, please, know that we have all the time in the world." He moved to go inside but stopped. He did have one more thing to say. He turned back to face Sansa, who still watched him with a chillingly quiet intensity. "If you would do me the honor of growing to trust me. If we could be friends... Do you think that, perhaps, we could aim for that?" Considering all that had been asked of her previously, the woman thought that that was the least that she could do. Surely, she wouldn't call him a friend now, and perhaps trust was a strong word, but there was no malevolence in her feelings toward him. In fact, he was the only person in King's Landing that truly held a positive impression on her. She nodded, trying to signal that that much had already been done. "Good. Until next time, Sansa."

Sansa spent the rest of that day largely alone. Her handmaiden found her and gave her a warm hug and Sansa hissed as she jarred her side. The girl had been frightened that Sansa had been killed after she'd heard what happened with Joffrey's mark. Apparently, however, word of her new quarters and the man she shared them with hadn't gotten around, of which she was slightly grateful. They'd all know before the day was out, but at least her morning would be spent in relative peace. The girl drew Sansa a bath and Sansa retrieved a few of her essentials from her trunk: bath oils, a skin cream, and a fresh bar of soap. Once she slipped into the tub, she felt herself truly relax for the first time in ages. She scrubbed the previous day off and let the lavender scented steam encase her. When she finished, she stepped out of the tub and dried, applying the lotion all over her body and wondered how long it would take this fresh round of bruises, that would likely be her last, to heal. Hopefully, not too long, she thought, eager to be done with it. She let her mind wander to thoughts of a happy marriage. Tyrion mightn't be a conventional choice for a husband, but the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that they could potentially be good to one another. She still struggled with the idea of trusting him fully and he seemed so scared of something she couldn't quite name. She lay on the bed and let herself drift to sleep. When she eventually rose, she decided, against logic, that she would only top her shift with her dressing gown since she didn't plan to leave her quarters. She began reorganizing her belongings into places she thought they should go, rearranging the furniture into a more pleasant order, busying herself on making her quarters- their quarters, she corrected- more homey. Suppertime came and past and Tyrion didn't return. The thought wasn't particularly troublesome, but as it drew later, the thought that Joffrey might come searching for her set in and she grew impatient for her soon-to-be husband's return. She sat in the bed for quite some time, trying to distract herself with needlework, reading, anything, before finally drifting back to sleep for the night.

Tyrion had stayed in his study for quite some time after his duties were finished, trying desperately not to intrude on the poor girl whose life he'd so rudely uprooted the night prior. The poor girl who, despite all intelligible logic, would be his bride in just two days. The poor girl who the Gods had deemed his soulmate. So, even though his heart raced at the prospect, why did his stomach churn so? When he finally made his way back to their room, well after midnight, he was unsurprised to find Sansa asleep. What did surprise him was her position. She was atop the blankets, still in her dressing gown, book, and needlework on the bed beside her. He wouldn't let himself believe she'd been waiting up for him, but if he let himself imagine it, it engulfed him. He wouldn't let himself believe that she could be so easily swayed. She was so young, so perfect. He gazed at her for a moment, striking the needlework and book from the bed, then reentered the living area to find the blanket and pillow left folded on the settee. If he was going to come back- If he had decided to sleep there, she wanted him to be comfortable.

He readied himself for sleep and prepared his makeshift bed, silently praying and thanking the Gods for the first time since he'd realized that words appeared on his flesh at all. That night, Tyrion prayed to the Father that he could be as good to Sansa as she deserved and that Joffrey served penance for all his wrongdoings against her. He thanked the Mother for allowing Sansa the perseverance to endure whatever torments she'd faced and the Maiden for granting her the willingness to, at least, entertain the thought of him. He prayed to Them that their marriage would be one of love and trust and that, if she ever found herself willing, that Sansa bear only healthy children. To the Crone, he prayed for guidance in navigating their future together and thanked Her for giving him the insight to realize his chance. The Warrior he thanked for the courage to bare his truth to everyone so boldly as he had the previous night and sought the fortitude to continue protecting Sansa from the dangers King's Landing served her at the hands of his blood. From the Smith, he asked for aptitude in creating a foundation on which to build their life together. He thanked Him for the continued mending of their wounds, both physical and within. He prayed to the Stranger to stay far and away for as long as They could and thanked Them for whatever lie in store. As he watched the shadows grow longer and longer, waiting for sleep to take him, he hoped that, perhaps, things would get easier.

In the morning, Tyrion woke well before Sansa and slipped back out again, in the hopes that he could give her time to come to terms on her own. When she finally rose, finding herself alone still, or perhaps again, she readied for the day and made haste for the other side of the castle where she knew the offices of the small chamber sat. She found a spot in the garden outside and began working on her needlepoint again, enjoying the sunshine. It was interesting, she thought, how quickly she found herself less inhibited. Just before high noon, a group of men, whose faces she remembered from court, made their way out into the air. A few steps behind, Tyrion exited as well, head bowed low and focused on a seemingly troubling document. "My Lord!" she called, rising to meet him. He didn't lift his eyes. "Tyrion, wait," she said, a little louder, taking long strides to intercept him. He looked up with a start, searching for the voice, not used to anyone seeking him out. "I've been looking for you," she said with a smile.

Tyrion seemed confused by her visit, but very pleased to see her all the same. "Sansa? Is everything alright?"

"Yes. I just..." Sansa found herself lost for words again. She honestly hadn't expected to get this far. "I had wondered if, perhaps, we might take a walk around the grounds? I know we haven't much time before the wedding, but I'd hoped that, maybe, we might be able to acclimate to one another," she suggested, "at least a little, so that it's not a shock to us both." Tyrion surveyed her carefully as she spoke. "I know the Seven requires that we not see each other for twenty-four hours beforehand, so time is running perilously short."

"That's very wise," he agreed with a nod, tucking the ledger in his pocket. "I don't see why not. I have some time before I'm to return to the Small Counsel."

Sansa released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Good."

The new couple, if that was what they were, walked slowly through the gardens in comfortable silence, lost in independent thought. If she'd realized she would actually get this far, Sansa might have spent some time coming up with topics of conversation. Tyrion, however, was more than happy to just be in her presence unincumbered by his recent admission. He kept stealing glances at her, as though expecting the next time for her to not be there.

A sharp laugh from two passers-by jolted them both back to reality. Sansa's eyes widened in shock and she felt her confidence retreat into herself. Tyrion, on the other hand, gnashed his teeth a little, repeating their names to himself, low. "Ser Eldrick Sarsfield, Lord Desmond Crakehall. Ser Eldrick Sarsfield, Lord Desmond Crakehall..."

Not quite hearing his words clearly, Sansa turned to him curiously. "What's that?"

"Ah," Tyrion said, not realizing he'd actually been saying the words aloud. "Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall," he said, nodding in the direction the men walked.

Sansa gave a curt laugh. "Yes, and?"

"I have a list," he admitted, a little shyly.

The only time she had ever heard of such a thing was in sellswords and assassins and kings who were convinced the world was out to get them. The thought stiffened her. "Of people you mean to kill?" she asked quietly, stepping aside and gesturing for him to do the same.

He was taken aback by her insinuation. "No. Gods, no," he answered, bewildered that that would be her first instinct. "For laughing at me? Do I look like Joffrey to you?" She softened, shaking her head in the realization that, no, Tyrion was not that type of man. They resumed their walking. "Death is extreme for my taste. Fear of death, on the other hand," he half-joked.

"You should learn to ignore them," she suggested.

Tyrion laughed this time. "My dear Sansa, people have been laughing at me far longer than they've been laughing at you." Their eyes met and Sansa thought, just for a moment, that she saw the slightest hint of sadness beneath his jaded humor. "I am, after all, the Half-Man. The Demon Monkey. The Imp."

"And I am the disgraced, tarnished daughter of the traitor Lord Eddard Stark and sister of the Would-Be Usurper Robb Stark," she said, earning herself a genuine smile from her husband to be. "The Disgraced Daughter and the Demon Monkey," she mused, her fingers brushing gently past his sleeve as she lowered them to her sides. "I suppose we are perfect for each other."

Perfect for each other. Her words rang throughout his head. There was no sarcasm, no disappointment, just as though it was fact. Perfect for each other. "Lady Sansa-" Tyrion started, marveling at her ease in finding the humor in it all.

Seemingly, Sansa didn't notice his wonderment. "So, how do we punish them?" she asked, enjoying the playful moment.

"Who?" he asked, still caught up in her words.

"Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall," she reminded.

Tyrion nodded. "Ah, them. Well, I could speak to the Master of Whispers and learn their perversions," he turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Anyone with a name like Desmond Crakehall must be a pervert."

Lacing her fingers in front of her, she turned her head to the side. "I hear you're a pervert."

"I am the imp," he admitted, staring at the ground. "I do have certain standards to uphold." Of course, she knew that. The pair lapsed into silence for a while before coming upon a small grove of pink and white flowering trees with white stone benches. Sansa stopped a moment, enjoying the view, and Tyrion gestured for her to enter and sit.

Choosing a bench in the far corner, they sat beside one another. A warm breeze off the water below rustled the blooms and caused them to fall. It was almost like King's Landing was offering her its version of snow. "We could sheep-shift their beds," she suggested.

"Sheep-shift?" he asked.

Sansa inched closer, pulling her knee onto the bench and resting her hand upon it. "You cut a hole in his mattress, fill the hole with sheep dung, sew it back up and remake the bed. The room will reek and he'll be none the wiser." She smiled mischievously.

Feigning revulsion and scandal, Tyrion clasped a hand over his heart. "Why, Lady Sansa!"

"My sister used to do that when she was angry with me. She was always angry with me," she looked down, mind suddenly hundreds of miles away.

"Why sheep-'shift'?" he asked.

Slightly embarrassed at ever being so green, she blushed. "That's what we used to think was the vulgar word for dung."

"Oh, My Lady," Tyrion looked down, realizing, not for the first time, how much had been stripped of this girl. She may not exactly be a child, but there was still so much youth in her. He felt himself falling for her even more. It didn't make sense. She was his soulmate, after all, and they were to be married. Still, he felt guilty.

Unaware of his struggle, Sansa gave a self-deprecating laugh. "You asked." She leaned in a little, even though they were alone, not wanting to risk anyone hearing her words and report them back to someone who might not appreciate them. "Tyrion, I just wanted to say, for the first time since being in King's Landing, I'm not particularly worried about what happens next."

"This doesn't scare you?" Tyrion asked, placing his hand perilously close to hers.

She let out a shaky breath. "A little, as I assume it scares everyone." Marriage, overall, was a big step for any two people, especially those who knew as little about their betrothed as they knew about each other. Still, given her choices, this seemed a much brighter option. "But I was brought here to be married, largely out of duty and never out of a particular fondness. I was told that I would grow to love the King as my husband and, the longer I knew him, the less it seemed likely." Her fingers lifted and lowered a few times as she stared at the space between them. "I don't know why you waited so long to tell the truth."

"I had accepted that you loved him. Whether or not that is the case here is not particularly relevant," he said, sensing her discomfort at the suggestion. "Sansa, I've lived with these words for seven years. For seven years, I've mulled over every intonation, every delivery every situation that could bring them about. In none of those situations did I ever, for a second, think that it would end well for me. I forced myself to swallow any feelings I could have because he was the boy who would be King and my nephew and, I don't know if you've noticed, Sansa, but I'm not exactly a desirable man." Her heart hammered in her chest as he said that, but she couldn't nail down why. "I don't expect you to ever reciprocate any feelings for me, especially not after all you've been through." Sansa closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. Not after all you've been through. He couldn't know all of it. "Besides which, you're still so far away from receiving your own mark."  
"A little more than two years," she said, unsure if he was aware.

"In that time, who knows what could happen?"

Sansa was beginning to wonder if overthinking was something he did often. "Who indeed?"

The bells chimed, signaling the half hour, and Tyrion groaned. "And, I'm afraid I must away." He raised, offering his hand to her. She took it gladly, standing herself as well. "Thank you for seeking me out, Sansa. A much-needed break."

"It was my pleasure, Tyrion. Truly," she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. They lingered like that for a moment before Tyrion gave a nod, taking his leave. Sansa came to a striking realization. "Tyrion," she called out and he turned back, startled. "The next time we see each other will be our wedding day." Her stomach gave a flip that, if she didn't know better, she'd have called excitement. He smiled at her and placed his hand gently to his heart, as though stilling it, as he turned on his heel to go. Sansa stood by and watched him leave, ignoring the stares of the people who were shocked by the display. Apparently, news didn't travel quite as quickly in King's Landing as she thought.

"Lady Sansa?" a sweet voice came from behind Sansa, knocking her unceremoniously from her thoughts.

"Yes?" Sansa turned to find a woman, a bit older than herself, with red curls that hung down past her tanned shoulders, in a sleek gown of turquoise and gold.  
The woman gave a polite curtsey. "Lady Sansa, I'm-"

With a smile and a similar motion, she interrupted the introduction. "Lady Margaery Tyrell. I've heard so much about you."

"And I you," Margaery admitted, relieved. "Do you mind if perhaps we took a stroll around the gardens?" Sansa shook her head, bidding the new insipient Queen Consort to lead the way. "Are you well?" she asked.

Sansa beamed, still reeling from the way her talk with her soon-to-be husband left her feeling. "I suppose. Still, adjusting, I think."

"From what I hear, you had quite the romantic declaration recently. I'm sad to have missed that." Margaery smiled knowingly, clearly having been brought up to speed.

The woman seemed genuine and it caught Sansa off-guard. "Indeed."

"You've not yet received your mark, have you?" she asked.

"No, My Lady," she answered. "I'm a few turns shy of nineteen. I've still got some time before then."

Margaery cooed, snaking her arm around Sansa's, "Oh, my dear, some time and no time at all. You'll see."

Taking a deep breath, Sansa directed them up a narrow walkway into a private garden with a rose-covered trellis over a small table and chairs "May I be entirely honest?" she asked.

"I would expect no less," Margaery answered, gesturing for them both to sit.

"Those two years may well be the death of me. Knowing now that there is someone who expects..." Sansa trailed off. She could only hazard weak guesses to what they could be, but she knew it wouldn't be long before they revealed themselves. Surely, Tyrion would be much more gentle than Joffrey could ever be, but he was, after all, a man and men of his position had certain demands of a wife. "Truthfully, I don't know what he expects. The only things Tyrion has asked of me is to try to grow to be his friend and to trust him. And, for whatever reason, I've never particularly mistrusted him."

She reached for her hand across the table. "So, how is that to be the death of you, dear girl?"

"I can certainly see myself growing to be his friend, but he... he seems so sure that he'll ask for no more. What if I come to a point where I know my own heart and he doesn't believe me?" She thought back to the way she seemed pulled to him, even before she knew how he felt and the way that every time she thought about being married to him felt like it did when she'd imagined marrying a knight on a white horse when she was a little girl. Only now, she knew what knights on white horses were like. Tyrion was not a knight. He was better.

"If he asks trust of you, would it be so hard for you to believe that he would trust you? Soulmates are a funny thing, Sansa. Have a little faith in him," she said, smiling warmly.

The concern she'd been struggling to name finally gave way to words. "What if at the end of all that time, he's not mine?"

"Then we'd both be in the same boat, wouldn't we?"

Sansa gave a shaky breath. No, not the same boat at all. Still, she understood the girl's position. "Is King Joffrey not-"

"No, sweetling. That was actually why I called upon you." Seeing that Sansa was still curious about her situation, she decided to give her some more information. "My soulmate is dead. I was married to mine. My Renly. He was a good man."

"Oh."

Margaery teased, "Yes, oh. I was not his soulmate," she gave an affected sigh and leaned back in her chair. "In fact, that was my brother, but that is indeed a story for another day. With Renly gone and news of the King's recent singularity, my grandmother accepted the match straight away that, with the recent victory at the Blackwater, the Lord Hand was only too quick to make on his grandson's behalf." Her light tone fell into a more serious one. "I'd heard a rumor that I wanted to..." she trailed off, trying to handle the situation delicately.

Uncomfortably, Sansa shifted, staring at the table and withdrawing her hand to her lap. "Lady Margaery...

That was certainly telling. "Oh. Well, then," she said shakily. "That doesn't bode well for me, does it? Please, just tell me." The older girl's confidence faltered as she tried to urge Sansa on.

"He has received no marking," Sansa started, trying to avoid the topic of her own troubles with the King, as she knew that they could be seen as treason and put her newly found safety at risk. "You know, probably better than I do, what that entails for a soul. If the Seven don't deem a soul worthy of that, I'm sure you can assume..." her ribs still hadn't stopped aching and she'd never been more grateful that all of her gowns had sleeves after how roughly she'd been thrown around at dinner. "I'm sorry," she said, tugging at the hem near her left wrist.

Margaery nodded, understanding. "That wasn't the rumor to which I spoke, but I suppose that does confirm what I was trying to ask." She looked at the girl's fidgeting. "I presume these bruises you're trying so hard to cover are not from your own lack of grace or from Lord Tyrion."

Sansa's eyes widened and she shook her head. "No, Tyrion would never."

With a solemn nod, the woman simply whispered, "Alright, then."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

Tears stuck in her eyes, Margaery shook her head. "Don't be. I'll figure that all out," she assured, reaching her hand across for the girl again, which she readily took. "But, Sansa, I would very much like us to be friends. Family, even." A playful grin played at one corner of her mouth, suggestively. "I suppose you'll be my aunt soon enough."

Both of the women laughed, realizing just how silly it all sounded. "I'd like that very much," Sansa said, breathing lighter.

The ladies spent the bulk of the afternoon discussing wedding plans and childhood stories and enjoying each other's company. By the time Sansa retired to their chambers, she could easily say that that afternoon had been her best in King's Landing.

Yet.


	5. Chapter 5

The bitter winds whipped through the encampment as the daylight hours began to wane. A raven soared overhead, swooping through a makeshift prison cell where a guard stood, particularly annoyed by the prisoner's rambling, and into the charcoal grey tent. Lady Catelyn took a scroll from the bird's leg and read it over.

Lady Catelyn Stark,  
It is with the greatest pleasure that I, Lord Tywin Lannister, do hereby announce, on behalf of the Lannister family, the wedding of Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock to the woman whose words are marked into his flesh, binding their souls for all eternity, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This union should prove to be most fruitful and the happy couple is to be wed at once. It will be a joyous occasion to behold. She truly is a lovely girl and it will be a joy to have such an innocent, bright young thing in our pride. Sansa Lannister will truly be a happy addition, as will any heirs she will bring us.  
Regards,  
Lord Tywin Lannister

Over and over, she read the letter. Over and over, she tried to put together just what he was playing at. And then she remembered one day on the road to the vale and the kindness she'd been shown. How looking into her eyes gave Tyrion the grit to fight where she'd been too afraid; Her eyes that she had passed on to her daughter. She decided that it must have been true. Sansa must be Tyrion's soulmate. She broke into tears and bolted from the tent into the encampment.

Robb, who had seen the raven and been on his way to her stopped, seeing his mother's distress. "Mother, what is it?" he asked, grasping her by the arms to steady her.

"Sansa," she said, gesturing with the parchment. Her pause terrified him. "She's been married."

A sigh of relief escaped his lips. "You knew that was going to happen," he replied, trying to comfort her. They'd talked about this. They knew it was coming. He hated it and had done everything he could to stop it. He didn't like the boy from the start, but now... What could they do?

"Not to Joffrey," she cried, burying herself in his shoulder.

He pulled back, searching his mother's face for answers. "Then, who?"

Catelyn gulped, trying to lower her voice so that the prisoner and guard mightn't overhear. "Tyrion Lannister," she answered.

"The imp?" Robb barked, undoing his mother's intent entirely.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the muddy man pull against his post, trying to draw closer to their conversation, urging the guard to eavesdrop for him. She sighed, realizing she should have just killed him when she had the chance. "Indeed," she confirmed, drying her eyes.

"We need to-"

"No, Robb. We don't," she said, finally smiling. Her sobs had not been those of fear or anger or sadness, but relief. "She's... she'll be safe. I firmly believe that."

Bewildered, all he could manage was a frustrated "Why?"

"Because I know," she said, a sense of finality to her words coming off as more of a snap than she'd intended. Her stare softened, jarring her son emphatically. "She's safe. Robb, Sansa is safe. They can't hurt her."

"What are you-"

Catelyn sighed, smoothing the fur on the collar of his cloak. "Just after you saw him at Winterfell, I, perhaps, made an error in judgment." Placing her hands on his shoulders, she continued. "I imprisoned him, meaning to take him to task for Bran. He didn't do it, of course, I know that, now. But our party was attacked and he saved me. He said that my children needed me and that he would protect me, and Robb, he did. He looked me in the eyes and seemed so sure. A voice in my head was screaming at me to believe him. It must have been Sansa." She pulled him into a tight embrace, running her hands through his curls as she did when he was just a boy. "She's safe. She's loved and she's safe," she whispered.

"Alright," he said, conceding to his mother. "So, we focus on Arya, then."

The wedding of Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell was set to be quite the event, even at its hurried pace. The Lords and Ladies of Court all seemed absolutely beguiled by the fact that a girl as sweet as Sansa was the soulmate of the dreaded Imp. There wasn't much time for gossip to grow, though, and on the morning of the wedding, no one could deny the charge in the air.

As expected, the couple were spotted surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of each other the whole morning. Lady Sansa seemed nervous, but all of her handmaidens claimed that it was more of the crowd and the fuss than the impending marriage. If she could just see him pass by, she'd be able to focus on the fact that she was marrying a man who truly cared. What she didn't tell them was that she'd spend so much time dreading marrying Joffrey, she was having trouble getting through all of the preparations without lapsing back into the fear that it would be the King waiting for her.

Lord Tyrion, likewise, was on edge. For him, it was the very real fear that someone was playing an elaborate practical joke on him, and they had put Sansa up to this, or worse, harm her. He didn't trust his father as far as he could throw him, especially having heard his father's plans for what he had intended to do if Tyrion had married one of the whores he'd bedded frequently in his youth. Were Sansa to just cross in front of the window, he'd be able to see that all was well and settle his anxieties. The Gods, or perhaps the royal family, seemed largely opposed to this, though, as they weren't even in the same buildings. When Tyrion reached the sept, he was quickly ushered inside.

A few minutes later, when Sansa and her ladies arrived, the girls were brought in, but Sansa was made to wait on the steps of the sept. She focused on the door, trying desperately to block out the echoes of the last time she'd stood in the square, some months prior. The only thing she wanted to hear at the moment from the ghostly voice of Ned Stark was that she was going to be alright, that Tyrion was a good, strong man and that he approved. If she looked back at the statue of Baelor, she wanted to be able to see Arya at his feet, heading toward her, telling her how beautiful she looked and that she'd give Tyrion a lesson in Needle work if he ever hurt her. But that wasn't going to happen, so instead, the door would be her focus. Inside of the sept awaited Tyrion. If she could just force herself to get through this part.

The great blue doors swung open to reveal King Joffrey's conniving smile and Sansa had to fight not to flee. She took a step forward and whispered, "What are you doing?"

Tyrion's heart leaped at the sight of her. She was beautiful and here and, as he suddenly realized, trapped by her tormentor. He clenched his teeth, ready to make a dash for him if he so much as looked at her in an untoward manner.

Knowing exactly what he'd done, and having gotten the reaction he'd wished for, the monarch smiled threateningly, "Well, you have no father, Aunt Sansa," he reminded her. "As Father of the Realm, it is my duty to give you away."

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, voice cold as ice and sharp as steel.

He offered an arm to her which she diffidently took, if only to have him no longer in front of her face, granting her the glimpse of Tyrion she'd waited for all morning. "You'd do well to remember this kindness," he sneered. "Perhaps I'll make a final visit to your chambers tonight, if you find he's not enough man for you, we'll make sure he knows how to make you behave. I'm not yet a married man and would only be too happy to make a cuckold of the old imp."

"I am loyal only to Lord Tyrion, Your Grace," she said, finally glad to make such a statement freely and honestly, even if this time, it was accompanied by the most snarling tone she could manage.

They moved down the aisle, Sansa fighting her every urge to slough him off and bolt to Tyrion's side. She caught a glance of Margaery at the front of the crowd, smiling encouragingly, then locked eyes on Tyrion who hadn't looked away from her once. She gave him a shy, grateful smile which he returned, nodding. When she finally reached the front of the sept, she took a deep breath and swallowed hard. This was it.

In one parting blow, King Joffrey reached down and removed the stool that had been meant to make it easier for Tyrion to reach Sansa for the ceremony. He was mortified and looked up at Sansa apologetically. She smiled, giving a small shake of her head as if to say, 'Don't worry.'

The High Septon cleared his throat. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," he prompted in a booming voice. Without a second thought, Sansa knelt before her husband, the skirt of her golden gown pooling around her legs, and cast an encouraging nod to him over her shoulder. He smiled, letting his fingers rest a moment too long on her shoulders before she rose to her feet, offering her hand to him instinctively. Any fear Tyrion may have had about this being a practical joke flew out the window with her gesture. In that smallest of gestures, he found hope that maybe she might care for him, too, or at least grow to, someday. "My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. Let it be known that Lady Sansa of House Stark and Lord Tyrion of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Tyrion led their paired hands forward, allowing them to be bound by the Septon's white ribbon. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." The pair took a few sideways glances at one another, hearts racing as they waited for the High Septon to finish undoing the ribbon that signified their metaphorical ties. "Look upon each other and say the words," he guided.

When they finally turned to one another, Sansa finally calmed. This was it. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger," they said in unison. "I am his," Sansa started, realizing for the first time that there was no one else in all of Westeros to whom she'd rather be saying these words. Even if she didn't love him, she knew that she could, at least, be happy with him.

"And she is mine," he said, tears welling in his eyes as he spoke the words to her that he'd never thought he'd say to anyone, least of all his soulmate. "From this day, until the end of my days," they vowed together. Sansa smiled and knelt once more, unprompted. "With this kiss," he said, grasping her hands a little tighter, "I pledge my love." He leaned forward, kissing her rather chastely. The butterflies in her tummy went wild as the celebrants applauded their union. She beamed, rising up. Tyrion thought to himself that he could only hope to make her feel more a queen at his side than she ever could have at the Kings. She certainly radiated the part to him.

The carriage ride from the Sept to the Keep was brief, but it granted Tyrion and Sansa their first moments alone as man and wife. They sat for a moment in stunned silence before she started working through the words that kept banging around in her mind.

Sansa turned to Tyrion and opened her mouth for just the sparsest of times before saying, "We're married," as if she'd only just realized what the huge ceremony implied.

Heart jumping at the thought, Tyrion kept his expression even, not wanting to scare her with his enthusiasm. "We are," he confirmed.

"You are my husband," she said, marveling at the thought. She still hadn't quite grasped the immensity of the process, but hearing herself say the words ignited some excitement in her that she hadn't expected to be there so soon.

"It appears so," he answered, lifting his brow slightly and nodding. He could scarcely believe it. Tyrion rested his hand atop hers, between them on the seat. "You are my wife."

His gentle touch sent a chill up her arm. If memory served, this was the first time they'd touched freely. He'd offered a helping hand, a polite greeting, she'd treated the wound on his face and offered a steeling grasp as he'd recovered, they'd dutifully performed their marriage rites, but this was different. This was new. Casual and intimate and lovely. "So it seems," she said, absently tracing her thumb along the outside of his hand. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she didn't want to chance any of them upsetting the mood, so she settled on a brief, whispered, "Thank you."

"For what?" he asked.

Sansa inched closer to him, carefully moving her fingers to catch his between them. "For saving me."

Shaking his head, Tyrion gazed at her softly. "I should be the one thanking you."

"Why?" she asked, baffled. In her mind, she'd done absolutely nothing deserving of any gratitude.

"I would never have..." he said, going over his thoughts carefully. "They forced you to bend the knee, Sansa. That's not what marriage is." Seeing her shake her head beside him, he continued. "Perhaps to some men, but not me. Not with you."

Heart aching for him, Sansa reeled at the thought that what she did was so bewildering and seemingly troubling to him. "I knelt out of devotion. Isn't that what taking the knee is at its core?"

"Yes, but-"

"Who better to be devoted to than my husband?" she said, eyeing him seriously. "I didn't kneel to pledge my submission to a King. I knelt to prove that I was willing to work with you to mold this marriage into something that's ours. No matter what came before, it's you that I'm loyal to." She leaned her head against his shoulder and Tyrion would have sworn his heart stopped.

"Gods, I want to kiss her," he thought, resisting the urge in his desire to let her set the pace. Still, he couldn't shake the desire. "She is my wife and oh, gods, do I want to kiss her."

Sansa gazed at him expectantly for a moment before beginning to survey parts of his face she'd never been close enough to notice before, thinking, "That was an invitation to kiss me, Tyrion," she thought, looking carefully at the strong lines of his hard set jaw. She didn't love him. No, definitely not, but she was bound and determined to be the best wife she could be. And he was kind and gentle and inspired all sorts of feelings within her that they now had all the time in the world to discover. But it wasn't love.

In King's Landing, the wedding feast was as much a part of the wedding as the ceremony itself. The revelry was to be second to none, Sansa was assured. After receiving their guests and hearing speeches in their honor, the couple sat at the head table, talking quietly with one another. Sansa was seated to her Tyrion's left, a custom indicating the nearness of the bride to the groom's heart. She supported her weight on her right elbow, her left leg draped over her right toward Tyrion, blocking herself off from the crowd, focusing only on him. Noting that Tyrion was drinking more from his water goblet than his wine, Sansa stated, impressed, "You're not drinking."

"Neither are you," he said, raising an eyebrow as he gestured to her untouched wine. He knew she wasn't much for the drink, but he'd expected any woman forced into marrying him would want to be as drunk as possible. "I want to remember this, Sansa."

She leaned closer to him, lowering her voice. "But... when you were talking to your father, you seemed-"

"He expects certain things of me," he sighed, remembering the contents of their earlier conversation. "It's easier, sometimes, to let him talk. Especially when he doesn't seem to understand the implications of what he's saying." Somehow, despite the heft of his words, his expression remained calm and gentle.

"Interesting," she said, taking his words as advice for handling her new father-in-law. She took his hand in hers, drawing his attention to her. "Tyrion, I just wanted to-"

Sansa didn't have a chance to finish her thought as Joffrey left his seat, addressing the crowd. "My Lords. My Ladies. The hours grow late. It appears that my Aunt and Uncle grow weary of our continued presence," he said, gesturing toward their modestly intimate posture. "It is time, I think, for the bedding ceremony!" he cheered.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion said, voice low as a first warning.

Joffrey bounced on his heels, strutting in front of them performatively. "Oh, come now, Uncle. Your passionate declaration, the rush to wed, clearly you're in a rush to get to this part," he said, licking his lips as his eyes flicked to Sansa. She gripped Tyrion's hand tighter. She hadn't realized this was to happen so soon. Her mouth dried as she imagined what was to come next. "Come now, lads, dispense with her gown. She won't be needing it much-"

Stiffening in his chair, Tyrion repeated louder and stronger than before. "There will be no bedding ceremony."

"There will be if I command it," Joffrey barked.

With a loud bang, Tyrion brought his free hand to the table in a fist, clattering some glasses upon the surface with the jolt. "Then you'll be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock," he said, picking up the dinner knife by his hand and pointing it at him menacingly.

"What did you say?" the king said, quietly, a little startled by his uncle's second threatening outburst in a week. He grew more and more angry with every passing beat of silence. "What did you say?"

From where he stood at the end of the table speaking to a seemingly impressed Lady Olenna Tyrell, Lord Tywin stepped in. "I think, given the circumstances, we can all rest assured that the bedding will happen, Your Grace. Your Uncle is very drunk," he said, narrowing his eyes at his grandson before casting a sidelong glance to his son.

Catching his breath, Tyrion finally let out a dark laugh, switching effortlessly into the role of The Drunken Imp, leaving Sansa's head spinning at the sudden change. "Indeed, your grace," he slurred, "very drunk indeed. I wouldn't dream to threaten The Family Jewels. But, as you've so nobly pointed out," he added, giving Sansa's hand a squeeze before sliding out of his chair and gesturing for her to follow, "I do have the most beautiful young woman in all the seven kingdoms to attend to and my own impish needs to be met so perhaps, My Lady, we should to bed." She nodded obediently and fell in behind. He paused, waiting for her to catch up and offering his arm to her which she hesitantly accepted. "I can tell you of all of my shortcomings. That should certainly set the tone," he laughed, face showing not the slightest trace of humor.

The couple walked in silence back to their chambers. Sansa didn't understand. What had just happened? Tyrion had spared her the bedding ceremony when that was the part of the wedding all men eagerly awaited. She was terrified of it but had resigned to the hope that nothing Tyrion would do to her could possibly have been worse than what she'd already endured at Joffrey's hands. As they stepped inside and shut the door, she turned to him, bewildered. "Why did you do that?"

"Would you have rather the alternative?" Tyrion asked, truly baffled by her. Had she expected that to occur? "Sansa, it's a barbaric custom. I've already told you, I will never hurt you." He closed the distance between them, taking her hand and guiding her inside. "This afternoon, you knelt before me and I wrapped you in my protection. I will not share your bed this night. Or any night if you do not wish it."

Sansa was stunned. "Why not? You want to," she asked, avoiding his eyes and worrying her hands.

Tyrion drew his lips into an understanding frown. "You don't."

"But you do," she shrugged, withdrawing her hands to begin undoing the laces on her dress. "You are my husband," she said. The back of her gown opened, revealing her shoulders and she let the heavy fabric slough off of her until she stood in naught but her slip. "It is your right." She stepped to the bed and turned to face him, a petrified look in her eyes. "It is my duty," she said, voice cold and unfeeling as she moved her hand to undo the shift as well.

"Sansa, please stop," Tyrion urged, taking her hand in his to stay her. "Listen to me. No man has a right to your body," he insisted, leading her to the bed and motioning for her to sit while he stood before her, eyes locked on hers. "In any way. No matter what you've been led to believe."

She could hear the King's threat ringing in her ears. She knew perfectly well that he was likely to make good on his words and the thought frightened her. Tyrion didn't need to know all of that. It would only hurt him. But if Joffrey were to stop by, and with how angry he'd been at Tyrion's threats, she could only imagine how badly he'd hurt her this time. Shrinking into her panic, Sansa shifted uncomfortably, feeling very exposed. She needed to convince him, no matter how much she didn't truly want it. "But you love me. And we're-"

"No," Tyrion said, tone flat and final.

Voice raising in pitch alone out of an urgent sense of flustered desperation, fearing the worst should they not, Sansa replied. "Your father said that the bedding would happen and-"

Groaning in frustration at the situation and the level of discomfort he felt at the discussion of his Lord Father, he growled. "If my father is so desperate for someone to get fucked tonight, I'll tell him exactly where he can start." Sansa jolted. A stunned silence washed over her. Taking a deep breath, Tyrion continued. "I would rather the Gods strike me down right here and now than impose upon you any further." He stepped back, granting her space to take in his intent. "I will not share your bed. Not until you want me to."

After a few moments, she finally asked, realizing fully that he was giving her the chance to take over control of how she felt about her part in their marriage. It would take time, she thought, but it could be nice. "What if I never want you to?" she asked, mind fleeing to the worst case scenario for both of them. It wasn't that she didn't want him. She didn't know him well enough to say that. But after Joffrey, she wasn't sure that she would find herself particularly willing to invite any man into her bed, no matter how kind, or caring, or devoted, or charming.

"And so my watch begins," Tyrion answered in resignation, thinly veiled behind his sardonic wit, bowing his head to match the solemnity of the Night's Watch.

The newlyweds readied for sleep. He headed dutifully to the settee, she solemnly to the bed. She lay there for a long time as the silence threatened to suffocate her.

Eventually, Sansa had to say something. "Tyrion?" she said, voice soft and low.

Jarred from his own thoughts, Tyrion propped himself on his elbows, struggling to see in the dark. "Yes, Sansa?" Hearing her stir and rise from the bed, he followed her silhouetted form's path as she stopped beside him.

"Goodnight, husband," she said, leaning across him and hugging him gently.

She was afraid it might have been too forward, too much too soon, until he sat up, returning the embrace tightly. "Sleep well, wife," he said fondly as she retreated across the room, both able to find sleep shortly after.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning light shone through the open balcony door as Tyrion began to rise for the day. He looked at the girl, sprawled on the bed across the room and smiled. He hadn't dreamt it. Even if the embrace she'd given him before bed had been fabricated, the rest wasn't. She was here, in their chambers, and they were married.

Sansa was now his wife.

He milled around their quarters, still so foreign to him, and found himself wondering what time the staff usually brought breakfast to this part of the house. He didn't want to wake Sansa himself, but he didn't want to seem like he was waiting for her. He noticed his hands starting to fidget with the waistband of his small shorts and cursed himself silently. He had no reason to be nervous. Still, that didn't stop him. He crossed to his chest and retrieved a fresh tunic and pants, dressing comfortably.

He nabbed a book from the shelf and sat at the small dining table, thumbing idly through a book, but he couldn't focus on the words.

Tyrion looked up from his book as she approached, pretending for no one's benefit or belief that he hadn't noticed the moment she moved. "How did you sleep?" he asked, feigning a casual tone that made him sound even more shaky.

"Well," she answered, smiling sleepily as she stood beside him. "And you?"

"Very well," he agreed. Noticing her hesitance to speak, his ever-present need to fill the silence won out. "So, we appear to have a generous eight-week Honeymoon ahead of us. As I said, all the time in the world. I fear that you'll grow sick of my doting, so if you ever find that you'd like to be rid of me-" he rambled on while Sansa, in her own way, attempted to make her intentions known.

"Tyrion-"

Unaware of her protestation, he continued, "All you need do is say the word and I shall exile myself-"

Sansa tried again, crouching beside his chair and putting her arm out across his book, "Tyrion-"

"To the library and you won't have to see me again until I return to sleep at night. But rest assured that-"

Having long since grown frustrated with his insistence, Sansa found herself struggling for ways to stop his mouth and the only thing she could think of was to... she tried to talk herself out of it, but the idea that he already wanted to run off was unthinkable. She placed a gentle hand on the side of his neck and kissed him tenderly.

He tried to continue to talk, but Sansa caught his bottom lip between hers and rendered him frozen. After a moment, the shock wore off and he kissed her back. She smiled, pulling away, enjoying his starry-eyed stupor. "Good morning, My Husband," she said, quietly.

Reminding himself what, exactly, his lungs were for, Tyrion released a shaky breath, replying "Good morning, My Wife," in a low tone that sent an unexpected chill down Sansa's spine.

She pulled the second chair closer and raised herself into it, letting her hands rest on the table, blushing at her momentary bravery. "It's good to know that you can't seem to talk through that," she said, teasing him. He seemed to want to interrupt, but she had to finish. "No, let me say this before I lose my nerve." He looked at her with a gleam of admiration and gestured for her to continue. "That was out of character and maybe a mean little trick, I know, but I needed to get your attention. You've been very adamant about wanting me to trust you and wanting friendship, but you won't give me the opportunity. You're so eager not to intrude upon my delicate sensitivities that it seems like you're trying to push me away. That won't work," she said, finally pausing as she realized how fast she was talking. "I thought, perhaps, today we could spend some time just..." she struggled to find a word for what she meant, settling on "cohabitating. We're married and I can count on one hand the number of times I've actually spoken to you, past curt statements of fealty, most of which not even to you." She shrugged, blushing at how short she'd been with him. "That is what I'm used to. Submission. This doesn't feel the same. You asked me days ago how I feel about this. You insist that you only ask for my friendship." She slid her hand across the table to him, relieved when he took it. "I suppose, if all else fails, there are worse things than being friends with your husband. But Tyrion, I want a marriage. And there could be a chance for that here." She took a deep breath, realizing what she'd said. Tyrion could feel his pulse rush in his hand and wondered if she noticed. Sansa smiled as she slid her chair closer, looking him in the eyes gently. "Let that kiss be a gesture of my intention to really try. Please don't shut me out because you're afraid that I won't want you. Please? Let's start with today. Let's just be together and learn about one another." Tyrion tilted his head, wondering if this would be as hard for her if it sounded like it was going to be for him. She sighed, tugging him out of the chair and walking him to the settee so they could be more comfortable. "You know how you feel for me, but you don't really know me either. Let's fix that."

They started off light, talking about favorite tourney events and the like, trying to build upon similarities before treading into more personal waters.

Sansa was a little surprised to learn that Tyrion had a favorite flower. He told her the story for about they were called Daphne for a maiden of house Mudd who was being chased and tormented by men through Riverrun and prayed to the Stranger as they were closing in on her that they'd never be able to touch her. She fell to the ground and thought that she'd be ravaged by the men, and her body turned to wood and sharp green leaves with bundles of light pink flowers and rich purple berries. The men who had been chasing her grew bored of their hunt and decided to stop, tasting the deep fruit. Before long, they had all expired. As it turned out, the Stranger had granted her protection after all, as every part of the plant was highly toxic, so anyone who would come along to forage from her would meet a painful end.

When he turned the question to Sansa, she was a little bashful to admit that her reasoning wasn't quite as meaningful. "Honeywort," she said, looking down.

"I don't know that I've ever heard of that before," he admitted, prompting a description.

She smiled, remembering the bed of them she'd planted at Winterfell. "It's a Northern bloom. I haven't seen them in King's Landing," she said. She wouldn't really have begun to know where to look. "They're tiny and purple and they flower in the coldest, darkest months. The colder it gets, the more brilliant blue they turn. Dark as the midnight sky. They're truly something to see," she mused, remembering how vibrantly they'd open during a frost. It didn't seem real, but somehow, they did. "Blue is my favorite color," she said, directing the topic on.

They chatted on as the handmaidens brought in their morning meal. Sansa immediately reached for one of the lemon cakes everyone knew she loved.  
Opting instead for a bitter brewed hot drink brought in from Essos, Tyrion admitted, "I don't have much of a sweet tooth."

"I believe that," Sansa said, taking instead a rosy tea for herself.

He laughed, watching a soft, satisfied smile play at her eyes and thought for a moment if there was any pastry that he'd particularly enjoyed. "There is a Dornish spice cake that's delicious, though, if made right. I haven't found anyone in King's Landing who does it justice. It has dates and oranges and nuts. Very different. Very good," he said. "You seem to be partial to citrus as well," he laughed, staving off wicked thoughts as she sucked the sugar off of the candied lemon slice.

They started talking about their homes. Tyrion talked about the sound of the ocean and the library but ultimately decided that none of the parts he liked best were things he couldn't get in King's Landing at least.

For Sansa, Winterfell was a much happier topic. "There is a room just off the forge that usually held excess grain for the animals, ore, kegs of ale, that type of thing. I used to go in there to hide from the boys," she laughed, remembering how Robb used to chase her and pull her braids. "It was warm, it was secluded..." She shook her head, realizing just how foolish she had been to run from them so often. "I don't think it would be my favorite now, though. Now, it would probably be the kitchen. Still warm, but everyone else seemed drawn to it. We never ate in the hall unless there was a feast," she said, leading herself on a tangent about the differences between hosting feasts in Winterfell versus King's Landing.

Tyrion asked what had happened to her direwolf, prompting their first foray into a more serious topic. He listened carefully as she told him all about the altercation with Arya and the butcher's boy, Micah, and was horrified at how grim everything turned. She concluded, mentioning how much she wanted to have another dog, maybe not a direwolf, but something that looks like one. She asked Tyrion what his favorite animal was, trying to give herself a moment to recuperate.

"You'd expect me to say a lion, wouldn't you?" he said, moving a little closer to her. "I'm actually fascinated by sea turtles. There was a bale of them that lived at the Rock and I would watch them constantly. They always got to carry their armor with them and could hide in plain sight." Sansa gave a brief laugh, thinking that it was fitting. She'd always thought Turtles looked so wise, and Tyrion certainly was that. "I remember Jaime used to say that I reminded him of them because it may have taken me a bit longer, but I always seemed to know where I was going."

Growing stiff from inactivity, Sansa slid to the floor, taking a cushion with her for her head, laying on her back. Tyrion followed suit, sitting next to her with his back against the base. They talked about different things they'd gotten good at over the years. He talked about how Jaime had tried, very badly, to try to get him good with any weapon, but he'd found that he was better with more abstract weapons.

Sansa laughed, imagining him using something like a tea kettle to bash off attackers. "I'm good with a bow and arrow," she said, shrugging when he directed the question to her. "Really good at it. My mother is actually the one that taught me. She's terrified of blades and doesn't believe much in hand to hand combat but archery." Tyrion struggled to imagine Lady Catelyn with a bow, however Sansa made sense. Every archer he'd ever known was calm and calculating, definitely much more cerebral than sword fighting. "If things ever get hairy and you have to protect your home or your family or if you need to provide, a bow and arrow is helpful. Arya was much more showy about it, but I practiced by myself and I do miss it. It takes an extraordinary amount of focus," she said, laughing about how long it had taken her little sister to even hit the target because she'd been so insistent about being over the top about it. The only other person, save her mother, she'd ever told was Bran.

The sun began to set and they both commented about the beautiful view from their balcony at sunrise. Sansa gave a yawn, sliding closer to him, absently grabbing at his hand.

"I'm a night person by default," Tyrion added. "I think it's easier for people to accept things as they are in the dark. People don't notice the little imperfections when they're bathed in moonlight." Sansa considered him, frustrated by how poorly he saw himself, but not feeling comfortable enough to argue. He continued, "The harsh light of day makes people irritable. And I like the quiet; the stillness. The moments don't seem to slip by as readily."

As they readied for bed, Sansa mused as she looked at herself in the glass. "I wish I had the body for Southern fashion." She stepped from behind the screen in a thin, light blue shift that clung to her curves.

"Sansa-" he objected, unable to take his eyes off of her.

"I do," she persisted. "Lady Margaery's dresses are not much more conservative than this and they cling to her so and I look as though I'm just a bolt of fabric, board and all. I'm sorry, for that," she said.

Tyrion walked toward her, lacing his fingers in hers, "Now, I won't burden you with my full thoughts on the matter. But, suffice it to say," he said, backing up and looking her up and down dramatically, "I quite disagree."

Blushing, Sansa tugged him back to the bed where most of the candles were still lit. They sat across from one another, suddenly much more quiet than they'd been all day. Reaching to him, Sansa brushed his hair from his forehead and ran her thumb over his forehead, just next to the developing scar. Tyrion's heart skipped a beat, expecting her to retract in disgust, but remembered that she'd helped to nurse him back to health when it first happened. It had been much more gruesome then, to be sure. "Does it still hurt?" she asked.

"A little," he admitted. "Not nearly as much as it could have. Apparently, it's thanks to you and Podrick that I didn't lose my nose entirely," he said, letting himself rest his hand on her arm.

She gave a sad smile. "Then I'm glad Podrick came to fetch me."

"Came to fetch... How did he know to come to you?" he started, realizing that he'd never actually asked. "Why did you bother?"

"He said he couldn't read the instructions on the bottles," she said, rolling her eyes and looking at the bedside table, "and that I was the only one around who was ever anything less than horrible to you." She was beginning to see that maybe he'd been right about the last part.

Tyrion furrowed his brow, confused. "He knows how to read."

Laughing, Sansa let her hands slide down his arms to his hands. "I'd figured as much. He was quite insistent that he be the one to change the bandages on your chest and I wouldn't have dared to be immodest so," she said, rolling her eyes at how silly it all seemed at this point, "I presume now it's likely that he saw your mark, realized that it meant me, and thought you might want to come to with me by your side."

"That conniving little shit," he joked, entwining their fingers together.

Sansa smiled, loving the newness of the gesture; how much more intimate a hand felt when the touch lingered and laced as opposed to the formal greetings of court.

Still, a grim thought crossed her mind. Things could have ended so much worse that night. "Do you know..." she started, struggling to phrase the question that she wanted to ask. "This is such a strange question and I'm sorry if it troubles you. But Podrick said that it was one of the men on our side that attacked you. Have you any idea why?"

"It was a member of the Kingsguard," he said, trying to make it sound less menacing than it probably was. "There are only two people who can give a command to the Kingsguard. When I asked Cersei if it was her..." he trailed off, trying to put it delicately. He desperately wanted to avoid the topic of Joffrey for as long as he could, but it seemed unavoidable, "let's just say, for all the terror that she is, she holds family as a paramount priority. As you well know, my dear nephew needn't have a reason. But it wouldn't surprise me if it had something to do with my interrupting his torment of you just prior to our departure." Sansa's expression fell, pulling herself a little closer. "And you needn't look that way. I'd do it a thousand times over." He reached up and brushed her hair behind her ear. "Your happiness is most important to me, Sansa. I need you to know that. From the time I first laid eyes on you, I knew that all I wanted was to keep you safe."

"Is that why you bolted from the feast at Winterfell and didn't bother to speak to me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, recalling the first time she laid eyes on him.

"You-"

Sansa laughed as he stammered, eyes wide and mouth open. "Noticed? Of course. I noticed you from the time you arrived," she confessed, remembering how he had run when her engagement was announced. "I was afraid you were going to take the black and I'd never get the chance to actually know you. Then, things got difficult and I wasn't sure I wanted to know any Lannister at all."

That was an understandable position, all things considered. Half the time, he didn't want to know the Lannisters. That said, though he'd enjoyed knowing the Starks he'd encountered. "Prior to our eventual meeting, there were two separate instances that you should hear about from me," he said, earning him a curious glance. She shifted onto her side, getting more comfortable. "First, I designed a special saddle and brought the sketches to Winterfell on my way back from The Wall." Sansa smiled broadly, imagining her little brother riding fast through the woods around Winterfell. "I don't know if it ever got made, but if it did, your brother Bran may well be on horseback as we speak. Shortly thereafter, I was captured."

"Captured?" she asked

He gave a short laugh at her deep concern, despite being able to see that he was just fine, especially considering the captor. "By your mother, actually," he added, giving her a nudge.

"By..." she stammered, trying to wrap her mind around what he was saying.

Tyrion nodded. "She insisted that I made the attempts on your brother's life. Apparently, she was told that a dagger dropped by the assassin belonged to me."

A wave of shock took over Sansa's face. Suddenly, a comment almost forgotten from the night of the Battle of the Blackwater came back to haunt her.

Mistaking her bewilderment for concern, he continued with urgency, "It didn't. I had never seen the blade before. But, I knew the story she'd been fed, and knew whose part she'd been told I played." He rolled his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows, stretching.

Sansa slid further up the bed to be next to him. "It was Joffrey," she said plainly. "I don't know to which events you speak, but what I do know is that the KIng mentioned to me that he had a Valyrian steel blade that 'couldn't even cut down a direwolf pup.' What did he do to my brother?"

Carefully regarding her, taken aback by her comment to the King's cruelty, he explained, "A catspaw assassin was sent shortly after your party left for King's Landing and mine for the Wall to slit your brother's throat." Sansa clenched her jaw and nodded for him to continue, but he didn't know much more than that. "Are you sure? I'd presumed it was Robert as the dagger was technically his."

"I'm absolutely sure," she said, explaining the encounter in detail. "But I suppose none of that matters. Bran's alive and so are you, rendering it not particularly important at the moment."

"You're right about that," Tyrion mused, looking down, troubled by this new information and what it could imply going forward. He pushed it aside, for the moment, continuing his tale. "Before long, we were attacked and," the girl's eyes widened, afraid of what he was going to say. He rolled onto his side, taking her hand and kissing it gently, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as he spoke. "Sansa, your mother is fine. She was very brave and our party fought off the ruffians."

"You protected her?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Tyrion answered, looking down at their coupled hands, thinking back to that moment. Whether or not that was true, he had also witnessed a side of himself he'd never thought was possible.

Sansa shook his hand lightly, urging him to continue. "Then, you fought at her side,"

Tyrion sighed. "I did. And, Sansa, she let me go," he said, trying to reach the point he'd been ambling toward. "I looked in her eyes and saw your eyes. I was honest with her and she believed me." She smiled, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She imagined that was her mother's way of giving her blessing, whether she knew or not. "It gave me some hope that, perhaps, there was a chance after all."

"You would have done it anyway," she said, resting her cheek against his hand.

Brow furrowed, looking at her intently, he admitted, "I don't understand."

Sucking her lips in momentarily, Sansa nodded. I believe that you would have done both of those things whether they were my mother and brother or not," she said, inching closer to him, bringing her free hand up to his shoulder. "You're a good man. You've never been anything but kind to me. I have no reason to believe that you wouldn't have done that anyway. I know it was months ago, but..." The conversations trailed into Sansa asking questions about her mother and brothers, since he'd seen them more recently. It was a bittersweet moment, but Sansa thanked the Gods for any information she could get.

Sansa began to nod first and, after watching her quietly for a few minutes, Tyrion began to extract himself from the bed carefully, trying not to disturb his sleeping wife. Sansa reached her hand out and said sleepily, "Please stay. I feel awful having you sleep all the way over there," she gestured weakly in the direction of the settee and grabbed his hand, keeping him still. "It's not fair to you. This is our bed, after all," she said, putting heavy emphasis on the word our. Even if her eyes had been open all the way, Tyrion would have had a hard time believing that she was conscious and saying these things to him. "There's more than enough room. We can be worlds apart here," she said, gesturing with her free hand, "or not. But if you didn't want me to, I probably couldn't reach you if I tried." The girl scooted back and stretched, demonstrating the vast expanse of the bed. "See?"

"Are you sure?" He asked, not wanting ever to push.

"I am." Sansa nodded, opening her tired eyes once to find him staring at her with trepidation. She moved closer to the center of the bed and placed her hand gently on his knee. "Please?"

Hesitantly, he obliged, crawling toward the pillows and settling himself in. Sansa was out cold quick enough. He thought to move to the settee but didn't wish to offend. He watched her even breathing and wondered what she dreamt of. As he blew out the candle, Tyrion granted himself one tender thought that, maybe, she dreamt of him.

When she awoke the next morning, Sansa had fully expected him to retreat from the bed but was pleasantly surprised to find Tyrion snoring gently beside her. She moved into the room and sat at the table, knowing the room would be visited by any number of handmaidens in short time. There were usually three that came to her first thing in the morning, even still. She had grown accustomed to the girls and quite liked their company, but at the moment, she was a little annoyed by the prospect of intruders into their happy little bubble. Nevertheless, they came bearing breakfast and supplies to make her ready for the day. She bathed rather quickly and had the girl only do back the upper half of her hair, leaving long tendrils around her shoulders. Her dress was a simple and thin, not particularly suitable for wear around the castle, but she didn't have much of an inclination to leave their rooms that day either unless Tyrion had a strong desire to. The girls left platters of fresh fruit and pastries but didn't have much in the way of more savory items, as Sansa didn't usually take them. She bade one of the girls to fetch some eggs, sausages, and toast for her husband, as well as refreshing the water in the bath for him. The handmaidens shared a secretive giggle that certainly didn't go unnoticed by Sansa, who merely gave them a playful glare, reminding herself of the way she used to do the same when Jeyne mooned over Robb when they were little.

Truly, she felt different now, safer, and it felt good to be lighter. Everything in her world had felt so dark and heavy with the threat of Joffrey overhead and she was determined for that to not follow her into her marriage. She knew that, someday, she'd have to broach the topics, but for now, she was just happy and that was enough.

The jostling of the girls coming back in with her additional requests seemed to rouse Tyrion. "Good morning," she said warmly as he came to her side, astounded by her effortless beauty so early. He presumed he must have looked the sight, hair mussed, sleep clothes disheveled, groggy expression. Secretly, Sansa admitted to no one but her own mind that she quite enjoyed it. "I took the liberty of having one of my handmaidens draw a bath for you as well. And they've brought up quite the luxurious setting for our breakfast." Sansa gestured to the platter in the center, and Tyrion nodded, snagging a piece of sausage for himself. His eyes flicked away from her for a moment in the direction of the poorly hushed chatter of the handmaidens on their way out. "I suppose we are the talk of the Red Keep by now," Sansa noted.

"Does that bother you?" Tyrion asked, voice low and gruff in a way that intrigued Sansa.

Drawing her lips in a little, she shook her head. "Not at all. I suppose it should, but for now at least, while we're within this room, they don't exist," she smiled, taking a sip of her tea. "They can gossip to the High Heavens for all I care." She gauged his reaction carefully. Of course, he didn't seem to mind the talk and laughter. Why would he? She turned to face him straight on and added, "Although, I do have a question." Tyrion nodded for her to continue. "When we're eventually met with the gossip face to face, do you suppose we should be honest or let them talk?"

He hesitated for a moment, considering all the options. He knew that his father would have much to say if he suspected for a moment that they had yet to consummate their union and that it would get back to him one way or another if anyone was given reason to allege it. "I suppose it would be safer, for the both of us, if we didn't give them a reason to jab at our tenuous comfort."

"So if anyone asks," Sansa said, a devious mask of deceit falling over her eyes, as she reached a hand out to him, letting it fall wherever it may "we've been wildly passionate and with any luck, there'll be a new lion in short order?" She tilted her head slightly, mocking the suggestive expressions of many highborn ladies who found themselves discussing such matters in mixed company.

Tyrion nearly choked on the last bite of the link. "Let's not get carried away," he laughed, breaking her into a similar laugh as well. He moved toward her, rubbing the arm she'd extended to him fondly. "Gods, Sansa. Where did that come from?"

She rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Everything around here seems to go to extremes with no regard for middle grounds. I thought I'd start strong and we could work backward."

Taking her hand, as he would a court acquaintance, he played at a haughty, affected tone. "We're discovering each other and how marriage works best for us." He turned, addressing an imaginary figure to her left, playfully. "Of course, we're enjoying the process, Lady So-and-So." He patted her hand and turned to address another phantom visitor. "I wouldn't deign to embarrass my lady wife with such obscene talk, Lord Huff-And-Puff," he said, punctuating it with a glance that very much said 'we'll talk about it later, good ser' that made her laugh.

"So don't lie, but don't deny?" she concluded.

"Exactly," he said with a coy smile. "So, how are you finding married life, Lady Sansa? All it's cracked up to be?"

Playing right back, Sansa avoided his eyes innocently for a moment, thinking. "I'd say so. Right now, though," she said, settling her gaze back on him, "there is a kind, brilliant, charming man staring at me with such affection that I feel that my heart may burst and I get the pleasure to get to know him."

"What does your husband have to say about that?" he laughed.

Sansa moved her hand to brush his wild curls from in front of his eyes. "I'd hope that he would be pleased enough to know that his wife has seen no one but him in days," she assured, resting her hand on his shoulder finally, "and still wants to see no one but him."

"You're going to be sick of me soon enough," he said quietly.

Eyes twinkling fondly, Sansa shook her head. "I doubt that very much. In fact, I'd like to repeat yesterday, if you don't mind. You fascinate me," she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, retrieving her teacup once again.

"Fascinate?"

"There's so much going on in that head of yours. I wonder, though..." she said, voice turning a little more serious as he retreated to ready for his bath. "Last night, as the hours grew smaller, we started broaching some more serious topics. Could we pick up from there?"

Tossing his towel over his shoulder, he turned back to her, leaning against the wall. "If you're comfortable with it, I don't see why not."

Tyrion readied for the day in record time, the rumbling in his belly worsened by the single piece of sausage and the smells from the rest of the food. He hadn't expected Sansa to pick up on his own preferences so quickly, but it was clear that she had been trained well in the same way all highborn ladies are trained by their Ladymothers. It had nothing to do with her caring for him, he insisted to himself. No matter how desperately he wished it. He rejoined her at the table and began fixing himself a plate. "So, did you have anything particular in mind that you'd like to discuss?" he asked.

"I miss my father very much," Sansa said, having been working on how she wanted to breach this topic all morning. Tyrion nearly dropped his fork, not expecting her to want to delve into that so soon. Still, she continued evenly. "I worry about the safety of the rest of my family. I feel comfortable telling you that," she confessed, sensing his surprise. "I don't think you'll use it against me. The first thing you ever said to me was a kindness about my father and you stood up for my emotions on the matter, which I realize now that I've never thanked you for." She reached her hand for him across the table.

Leaning forward, Tyrion clasped her outstretched hand assuringly. "You needn't thank me for that." He leaned back, and Sansa frowned at the loss of contact. "Your father was a good man. There is nothing traitorous in the truth," he said. He nudged some egg around with his toast absently, still bothered by the whole matter. By all accounts, Ned Stark's death was absolutely uncalled for. It was the way of things in this world, though, and he hated it. Death was so final.

Sansa sighed a little. That hadn't necessarily been her point. "In any case, I gather that my affection for my family is clear. As far as your family is concerned, I believe I've only ever heard you speak fondly of Ser Jaime." Tyrion nodded, as that was likely the case. "Are you close?"

Tyrion considered the thought for a moment. Was he close to any of his family? "Jaime and I are as close as, I think, we can be. When we were young, I idolized him. The knight of lore," he mused, watching Sansa as she studied him. "Everyone loved him, even after they labeled him Kingslayer. They say it with such ire, as though they all loved the Mad King and would have preferred he burned the city to the ground." He heaved a sigh, knowing how much his brother was tortured by the circumstances surrounding Aerys Targaryen's death, and how he wished he could have told Ned and Robert the full extent, how there was honor in what he'd done. Still, Jaime would never get that chance now. "Cersei and Father both blamed me for my mother's death. They saw me as a monster. In fact, I'm sure they still do." He focused his gaze on his plate, knowing that if he really saw how gently Sansa was staring at him, he'd break. "Jaime always stood up for me. I owe him much. I'm afraid for him." He shook his head, never having admitted that to anyone. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what made him admit it then. Jaime could take care of himself. "Of course, Tommen and Myrcella are innocent. For whatever reason, they don't share their mother and brother's opinions of me."

"Myrcella is unwaveringly kind," she said, laughing a little. "It's almost unnerving." And just like that, the topic was open. They spent the better part of the morning learning stories of each other's families. He asked what she'd said to Tommen on the day they'd all seen Myrcella off. She gawked, unaware that anyone had noticed and filled him in on the way Joffrey had lambasted his brother for showing emotion and that she'd reminded him, quietly, that he'd cried in front of her before and shouldn't be so quick to dismiss softness. He was impressed. She mused about how she hadn't actually felt confident enough to stand up to him for quite some time until that moment. She remarked that it was like something had shifted and she knew that, no matter what Joffrey did to her for it, she'd be alright, one way or another. It had felt nihilistic at the time, but now she wasn't so sure.

As they grew stiff from the chairs, they moved to setee again, as they had the day before. This time, though, they sat a little closer, Sansa's knee pulled up as she faced him, his legs stretched out alongside hers. They joked about how, when their lunch was brought to them, the ladies maids would be all agog with the closeness.

She asked Tyrion if he was accustomed to this type of thing and he laughed, wondering if she was aware of how chaste it truly was. Yes, it wasn't necessarily appropriate for a lord and lady to sit so closely together, but surely there had been such moments in her own life. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he, actually, didn't know. So, he asked, "Sansa, was there ever anyone you courted when you were in Winterfell."

"Not in any serious capacity," she blushed.

"Sansa, if I've overstepped-"

She shook her head, "No, no. It's not that. It's just..." she knew what he was asking. He was asking about how experienced she was in matters of love. Love was as foreign a concept as any she could imagine to her. Even if... She cleared the darkest of thoughts from her head, not ready to talk about all of that yet. Stick to Winterfell, she coached herself. "I always knew that I was going to be brokered off so I didn't really bother. Like anyone, though, I grew curious as to what to expect and practiced a bit with a boy my father had taken in as a ward but there was nothing extreme. Some kissing," she said, noting the daring question in his eyes. She knew he probably wouldn't mind if she'd lied and said that she'd made love to Theon back then, especially considering that it would spare any awkward conversation surrounding her maidenhead, but she knew it wasn't right to lie. They'd talk about all of that eventually, but not yet. Noticing how long she'd paused, lost in her own thoughts, she continued, "but It didn't feel right, so we didn't bother. It turned out when he turned twenty-one just before I left Winterfell, that he had a fair bit of reasoning for it to not feel right with me."

"Why is that?" he asked curiously.

Another reason it wouldn't have been right to lie, she laughed. "I suppose for a similar reason to why Ser Loras may have been relieved to find his sister matched to Lord Renly," she said, delicately skirting the topic.

"Oh."

"Indeed," she nodded. "But, for me, it wasn't unpleasant with Theon so much as just empty whereas Joffrey was brutal," she suggested, planting the idea in his head so that, perhaps, the topic wouldn't be such a shock when it did get discussed. "I'm sure you can piece together that he's not one to dote or be particularly caring or gentle in any capacity."

Tyrion seemed to tense but carried on his original line of questioning. "But you're not uncomfortable with affection or any such notions?"

"No," she assured. "That is to say I'm not particularly experienced, but it's not something I'm opposed to."

"And the pace we've been keeping hasn't been too much?" he asked, trying not to make it seem like he was asking for more. He hadn't expected as much as soon, but he still wanted to make sure she was comfortable with everything.

"Not at all. Tyrion, let me be clear," she said, reaching out and taking his hand where it lay between them. "Hold my hand when you'd like. Small touches don't scare me, especially alone, in our room. Have I been too forward with you?" She asked, trying very hard not to say that she wanted to be more forward, but was holding back. Tyrion shook his head quickly. "Then, perhaps we should see just how comfortable we are with each other, in these matters as well."

His tongue grew thick at the suggestion. "How do you mean?"

She sat up straight again, trying to suss out how best to demonstrate what she meant. She moved closer to him and took a deep, steadying breath. "If, as we talk, you wish to touch me," she said, letting his hand fall to rest on her thigh as she traced hers up his side, "do it. I know you said you wouldn't bed me until I want you to, but that doesn't mean you should deny yourself otherwise. I promise, I'll tell you if it makes me uncomfortable," she said, never once breaking eye contact. "We'll never get anywhere with each other if we don't know where we're building from."

It appeared, the ground up was never an option. There was an air of comfort between the two of them that was irrepressible and Tyrion wanted to breathe it in forever. Something in this Sansa was different. He could see hints of a strong woman in the girl who'd been so tormented by Joffrey but this was faster than he'd thought possible. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, her quick development was something to do with the potential of his being her soulmate. He'd heard stories of how people felt about their soulmates that they'd known before their twenty-first nameday, how quickly things developed, a sort of undeniable pull; but he couldn't fathom being Sansa's soulmate. The Gods were cruel beings, he'd always been told, so why would they ever be so kind to someone as unworthy as him.

When he made a similar statement aloud, a demeaning joke about himself when Sansa asked if something was shortsighted, she admonished him for it, reminding him that that was her husband he was talking about.

More than a little grateful that the conversation had led there, Sansa finally allowed herself to wonder if his dwarfism affected him in any way but his size. "Apart from the way people treat you, I mean," she added.

Tyrion was more than a little taken aback. "No one has ever asked me that," he admitted, furrowing his brow a little, thinking about it carefully.

"Well, now you can't say that anymore, can you?" she said.

"No, apparently not," he laughed, then sighed. "My body aches, my joints, my bones, but nothing I can't manage.

Sansa brought her hands to his legs, gently rubbing her thumbs over his ankles. "Is there anything that helps? Salves, hot baths... this?"

"Some," he admitted, wanting nothing more than to kiss her for even caring to ask but resisting, opting instead to reach out and take both of her hands in his, lacing their fingers together, "but I believe I've just grown used to it, so I ignore it mostly." Sansa's eyes narrowed, almost imperceptively, but Tyrion caught it. It almost looked like frustration, which amused him a little. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, "It's just something that I wonder, I guess. I'd like to be able to help you if I can, but you seem so set against it."

He rested back against the corner of the settee. "I've dealt with it my whole life, Sansa. Twenty-eight years. I'm capable of coping by myself at this point."

"My point is that you don't have to," Sansa said, moving closer and propping herself on her hand across him. You're not by yourself anymore.

"Doesn't it bother you?" he asked, pushing her hair back over her shoulder and tracing his thumb gently over the line of her neck.

"No. Should it?"

Tyrion laughed. "If my memory of everyone who's ever mentioned it serves? Yes."

Sansa thought about it for a moment. She supposed that would be the case. But she didn't see it that way. He was more of a man than any she'd ever met, so why should it? "It bothers me that you think it would. It's a part of what makes you who you are," she said. "It also bothers me that it bothers you, I think."

They sat in silence for a while and Tyrion almost said something he knew would ruin everything. He almost told her he loved her. Of course, he did. She'd even mentioned it casually as fact. But saying it himself felt like too much too soon. But he did. He loved her.

Through the evening they talked some more, but Sansa also asked that he read to her. They wound up on the floor, cushions, and blankets around them. He'd picked up a book of poetry and chose a few of his favorites, bound and determined not to bore her with the types of things he normally read; histories and strategies.

She smiled as he finished one about the color of a lady's hair as he ran his hands through hers, glad she'd decided to rest her head in his lap. "When I was young, I was so taken with the idea of soulmates. I'd heard the stories of how my parents resented each other. How my mother was so sure that my uncle was her soulmate and how she didn't even see fit to be in the same room as my father for months after their match had been arranged." She laughed, thinking about how strange the idea sounded to her even now, but she could definitely see where her mother would be that stubborn. "She was hiding in some far corner room she'd made her own sanctuary in and he finally found her. He said 'I thought I might find you here.' He told her all about his day. He told her how he wished she would give him a chance and that it might not be as bad as all that. She turned to him and said 'Do you want to bet?' and my father's eyes went wide with shock and he bolted from the room. When they finally wedded and bedded, she saw the phrase 'Do you want to bet?' on his ribs and knew that at least there was a chance." Tyrion snorted a laugh. 'Do you want to bet?' certainly sounded like the appropriate tone of Lady Catelyn. To be sure, there was some of that fire in Sansa's words that lived on his own chest. In reality, there were some further echoes to their first words that he didn't want to explore the similarities of, though it was clear that Sansa had. "She turned twenty-one just after she found out she was expecting me and used it as a way to tell my father. It was all so romantic and fated." She shook her head a little, wincing as she jarred her still tender side. "After everything that's happened, I think I'll be happy to be safe," she said, letting her hand rest against his stomach, near to her face.

"You deserve to be in love," he said, staring her in wonder. She did. She certainly looked the part well enough, the young besotted bride, but that's not what this was. She'd just said it. She was happy to be safe. And he was more than happy to be able to provide that, but gods, he wanted her love, too.

Sansa's belly did another nervous little flip, the same as it had a few days prior in the garden. She arched her neck and smiled up at him. "That could still happen," she said, trying to quell the urge to kiss him. She'd already startled him with that once and it wouldn't be fair, she thought to do it again.

After a little while longer, they readied once again for bed, chatting together as they did. "So, what should we do tomorrow?" Tyrion asked.

"The days are starting to grow colder," Sansa said, "I'd like to visit the sea at least once more before it gets too cold."

Tyrion nodded, impressed that his Northern wife had any interest in it at all. "I think we can manage that," he said. Sansa climbed into bed and reached a hand out to him, not giving him the option to leave this time. "Sansa, thank you. For everything. For trying." He was still amazed that she was willing to give him a chance.

"Thank you for letting me." As they started to fall asleep, they kept drifting closer and closer to one another. Tyrion apologized every time and she shushed him likewise.

Her draw to him was a curious one. She'd spent so much of the last year dreading bedtime, even succumbing to frequent nightmares as Joffrey's torments grew more and more severe, but the nearer Tyrion was, the more comfortable she felt. Her mother had told her when she was younger about how her father was the only one who had been able to talk her out of heightened emotions, but now, she wondered if that wasn't, perhaps, something to do with the bond of a soulmate. She'd heard people mention the way their soulmates made their blood sing. It had always struck her as silly, but now, the more she thought about it, she could see how that description would fit the way Tyrion made her feel. She couldn't tell him yet, especially since he still seemed so scared of being hurt by it, but she was growing more and more sure that he was hers.

Even though they'd fallen asleep holding hands with his head on her shoulder, somehow, as they'd slept, their positions drifted. When they awoke the following morning, to Sansa's handmaidens' chatter, they found themselves utterly entwined, her leg hooked around to rest between his, his arm around her neck cradling her head to his chest, her arm rested over him entirely. Sansa thought nothing of it, not even of the way his body had so obviously reacted to her nearness. Tyrion, on the other hand, was thoroughly rattled by it. He excused himself to the privy.

Sansa enlisted the help of one of her handmaidens in transporting their breakfast into a large basket along with a blanket while the other two helped her ready herself. They found a dress that could easily have the skirts drawn up higher for her to play in the water and wouldn't be ruined if it got wet. After she was done dressing, the couple set off, hand in hand, for the sea.

They laughed as Tyrion guided them down halls Sansa had never seen before, through twisting staircases and lower and lower until she was sure they were underground. "Where are we going?" she asked, eventually, as they ran through a room with a map painted on the floor.

"Exactly where you asked," he said, guiding her through an archway and down yet another set of spiral stairs.

Finally, they were in an unlit tunnel and their pace slowed. "I've never been to this part of the keep."

Tyrion gave a short laugh. "Oh, we've plenty of time to explore all of that. I thought, perhaps, we might want to keep away from prying eyes and busybodies and little birds and whisperers still for today," he said, taking the basket from Sansa and carrying it.

"Are there many secret tunnels like this?" she asked, beginning to see sunlight as they followed the path's curve one final time.

"Very many," he nodded. "They were part of Aerys' design, ensuring that he'd be able to escape with his children if the need should arise." Sansa nodded, always interested in his boundless knowledge. "It may not have worked so well for him, but his children did get out, so I suppose he had the right idea."

As the tunnel ran out, they found themselves on a secluded rocky beach on the sea. "Oh, Tyrion, this is..." Sansa was at a loss. She'd expected the white sands and dunes she'd seen from the garden cliffs, crowded with lords and ladies enjoying the last strains of Summer. This was different. It was serene and they were well and truly alone. "It's beautiful here," she said, pulling him nearer to the water's edge. She stood for a moment, awestruck by the sight.

"It certainly is," he said, regarding only his wife. The sea had nothing on Sansa.

They lay out their blanket on a patch of smooth stones. They ate and they talked. After a while, Sansa stood up, hitching up her skirts and affixing them to her waist. She turned back to him, noticing he hadn't moved. "Are you coming in?"

Transfixed by her, he simply shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory of how near to him those legs had been this morning. "I think not, My Lady."

"My Lady?" she scoffed, the absurdity of it causing her to laugh. She crouched beside him, playfully tugging at his wrist. "Are we back there again?"

He smiled, correcting himself. "Sansa. As much as I do love to be by the sea," he said, crossing his legs bashfully to hide the reaction she was eliciting. "I believe I may just enjoy the view."

"Spoken like a true husband," she admonished, trying once more to tug him to his feet. When he didn't budge, she gave up for the time being and danced her way into the water, kicking and splashing as she did. Tyrion watched, trying desperately to ignore the stirring in his groin. Maybe the cold water would be good for him... he rolled up his breeches and headed in after her.

They played and splashed, laughing like children for quite some time, discussing summertime memories.

As it grew colder, they retreated back to their blanket and stayed that way, eating the remaining fruits and bread from their basket resting against each other. Sansa let herself imagine what it would be like if, maybe in a few years time, Tywin were to pass away, leaving Casterly Rock to Tyrion and they could live there instead of King's Landing and spend their days there. They wouldn't be like this every day, obviously, but she'd like to imagine that, maybe, they'd be able to sneak away sometimes and teach their children to swim and skip rocks. Tyrion's mind wandered to much nearer fancies; Things he hadn't thought about in such vivid detail since the words on his chest had a face and name attached but he hadn't been able to stave off since this morning.

They stayed through the afternoon and watched the first stars of the night appear. Tyrion bunched the corner of the blanket up and lay back on it, guiding Sansa to lay back against him. "How much did you learn about the stars in your lessons?"

Sansa reached for his hand and grasped it, staring at his their entwined hands happily. "Not much," she admitted. "We're not seafaring, so there wasn't much need for it. We learned more about plant life and wildlife."

"So," he said, gesturing to a cluster of stars with their hands, "You don't know the story of Aelysh and Phyllor?"

Shaking her head, Sansa merely hummed a no, smiling at Tyrion's seemingly endless wealth of stories.

Tyrion shifted, wrapping Sansa in his arms, suddenly thrilled to realize that she was more than willing to listen to his lore and fables. "Well, so the story goes, Aelysh was the daughter of Gyedal and Daehlrys. Daehlrys was a jealous and vain woman. When Aelysh grew to be more beautiful than her mother, the woman decided to sacrifice her to have her own status as the most beautiful woman in the land sealed. They chained her to a bluff and left, expecting the sea dragon, Nagga, to claim her," he growled, accenting the danger by playfully jarring Sansa. She swatted at him playfully. "Days passed and Aelysh was left, sunburnt, parched, and starved but still hanging on. One day, Phyllor heard the poor girl's screams and rescued her. He rowed to the bluff and broke open the chains. Even in her weakened state, he could see that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He fell instantly and madly in love, nursed her back to health, and marched back to where Gyedal and Daehlrys were heard to be staying until there was confirmation of the girl's death. He reached the Inn and made his case to ask for the girl's hand, but Aelysh was promised to another, her uncle Vyhertis, and if she was still alive, she'd be going back to be wed." Sansa furrowed her brow and snuggled against him, hearing some unfortunate echoes to this story. However, most of these stories didn't end quite as satisfactorily as hers had. "Phyllor had heard of Vyhertis's cruelty and couldn't stand to see more harm come to the girl. He gathered his belongings and his Lady and made haste for the Lord's castle to challenge him for her honor. What the poor bastard didn't think about was the repercussions. Vyhertis struck Phyllor a fatal blow and did likewise to Aelysh for expressing her anguish." Sansa let out a little gasp despite herself. Tyrion kissed the back of her hand, his lips curling upward into a smile against her soft flesh. "The Gods, however, were so moved by his devotion, that they granted them eternal life together in the skies, so now they lay entwined, see?" He took their coupled hands, extending his index finger, and gestured toward two clusters of stars in the sky. "Phyllor," he demonstrated, tracing out the silhouette of a man holding a sword, "and Aelysh," he added, moving his hand down to the right, a figure reaching for the first, "still together to this day."

Sansa rolled over to her stomach, face perilously close to Tyrion's. "Ill-fated lovers who protect and watch over star-gazing lovers and make sure they don't meet the same fate?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Tyrion said, pushing a fallen curl behind her ear, giving him a better view of her eyes, "but yes, I suppose you're right. We could easily have ended much the same way." Truthfully, Tyrion was more than well aware of how lucky he had been that Joffrey hadn't decided to take a more direct course of action.

In short order, the couple began packing up their basket and returned through the twisting halls of the red keep, sun-kissed and pleased with themselves for successfully avoiding people the whole way. When they reached their rooms, they began to ready for bed. Sansa's whole body felt like it was humming. She was blissfully tired but couldn't imagine being able to sleep. "I can't remember the last time I've had such a good day," she said, unpinning the last of her hair as she walked toward Tyrion, who sat at the table, skimming through a book on Essosi laws. She knelt by his side, placing her hand atop his. "Thank you, Tyrion. Truly."

"The pleasure is all mine," he assured, gazing upon his wife fondly. "You look exhausted. Get some sleep," he said, returning to his book.

Sansa lay in bed for an hour or so before she realized that Tyrion had raised from the table and was moving to the settee. She called out to him. "Tyrion? Come to bed."

He let out a sigh. "Sansa..." he said, voice hesitant. After the way they'd awoken that morning and the near madness it had driven him to all day, just watching her legs for Gods sakes, he didn't want to push his luck. Everything had been going so well and he didn't want to cock it all up.

"Tyrion..." Sansa replied, matching his intonation spot on, reaching out a hand and crooking her finger to beckon him forward. He gave no further argument, unable to fight his beautiful wife calling him to their bed. She smiled at him as he settled in. "Good night, Tyrion," she said, nestling into him the same way she'd awoken that morning.

With his heart hammering so hard Sansa must have been able to hear it from where she lay on his chest, Tyrion wrapped her in his arms willing himself to calm. "Good night, Sansa," he answered, resting his cheek atop her head and trying to recall every word the lawbook had on what types of justice the Great Masters of Meereen doled out. Surely the mental images would be jarring and unpleasant enough to stave off any unwanted thoughts.

A messenger had knocked early the next morning and asked that he be present at a mandatory meeting of the Small Counsel at his earliest convenience. He began to ready himself immediately, before remembering that he was no longer alone and, perhaps, he should wake his wife to tell her of his absence. He crossed to her side of the bed and watched her for just a moment, cursing himself for having to wake her, then took her hand gently, kissing it. "Sansa," he spoke gently. She began to stir and he rubbed her arm lightly, hoping the motion would continue to rouse her. "Good morning," he said as her eyes began to flutter open. "I just thought you should know that I'm heading out for part of the morning." She frowned a little, tugging at the frayed edge of his doublet, making a mental note to herself that she should take a look at the rest of his wardrobe, just to see if anything needed mending. "Apparently, there's some sort of briefing I'm meant to attend today. It shouldn't be long, Sansa," he said, caressing her jaw with his fingers, tilting her chin to face him. "It must be important if they're interrupting a man on his honeymoon." She nodded, understanding. She may not have liked it, but it had to be done. "I'll return before the mid-day meal."

"I'll see you then," she said, almost leaning up to kiss him in her sleep clouded state, but stopped, instead resting her hand on his chest.

Not knowing what else to do with herself after finding nothing pressing to repair, Sansa took leave in search of Lady Margaery. The grounds were crowded with gold cloaks that morning, much to Sansa's surprise. There must have been some cause for threat again. As she stood out in the mid-morning sun, she caught glimpse of the remaining traces of the bruises on her arms from King Joffrey's name day and laughed to herself thinking about how truly bizarre the past week had been. That night, she'd been resigned to the fact that she'd be married to a monster and now, here she was, finding herself counting down the minutes until her wonderful, sweet husband would return and they could be together once more. She felt her cheeks sting at the thought, never having expected to go head over heels this fast, and for a Lannister, no-less.

A warm voice came from the garden behind her. "My, my! If it isn't the blushing bride!" Margaery circled around her friend appraisingly before hugging her. "I daresay, I thought I'd lost you to that husband of yours for good."

Sansa laughed, "We were just trying to avoid the gossip a little while longer." She took her arm and leaned in confidentially. "Truthfully, I'd still gladly be in our room if he hadn't been called away on some pressing matter or other."

"Yes, I'd heard. All very hush-hush, isn't it?" Margaery nodded, lightly mocking the distance at which wives were often kept from such matters. "Now, tell me. Is he as good as they say?" she asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

With a suggestive smile, realizing this was her first shot at the 'let them think what they want' method of gossip avoidance they had decided on, she whispered only a single word: "Better." It was the truth. Tyrion was, in all capacities she had seen thus far, so much better. Perhaps it wasn't the answer to the question she was asked, but it wasn't wrong.

Margaery beamed, pulling her friend in tighter. "Oh, Sansa, I'm so happy for you," she said, leading them up a path toward a cluster of benches. "You must tell me everything."

"Lady Lannister?"

Neither of the women reacted, at first, but seeing that the approaching figure was, indeed, speaking to them, Margaery gave her a pinch to the elbow. "That's you, dear."

Sansa blushed. The thought hadn't exactly crossed her mind yet. Lady Lannister. She didn't hate it. Not when it linked her so prominently to the man who had changed her life. "My apologies! I'm not used to hearing that yet," she confessed, addressing the man, a member of the Kingsguard. "May I help you?"


	7. Chapter 7

The briefing Tyrion was meant to attend that morning was a might bigger than he'd expected. He'd expected it to be some type of family matter. He'd listen to his father rattle off demands and plans, snipe some painful truths at Cersei and be back to Sansa in no time. He realized he was wrong when he arrived and saw the Small Counsel, or what was left of it after the flight of Renly Baratheon and his subsequent death and departure of Lord Baelish for the Vale and his marriage to Lysa Arryn. He hadn't thought about it before, but technically that made Littlefinger his uncle by marriage. He shuddered at the thought. Tyrion sat at the head of the table between Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle, opposite his father, with Cersei to his right. Joffrey paced around the table like an excited child. Something about the whole matter had an air of foreboding to Tyrion, perhaps it was the frown Varys wore that seemed to betray a sense of pity for him, but he didn't want to let his mind travel to it's more dire suggestions. Instead, he'd just wait.

When the Grand Maester thrust the scroll to Tyrion, he didn't want to read it. He didn't want to know. "Roslin caught a fat trout. Her brothers gave her two wolf pelts for the wedding," he read to himself, then checked the seal. The twins meant Walder Frey, that much he knew. Roslin Frey had been intended to marry Robb Stark, when last he'd heard, but trouts were Tullys. Perhaps another match had been made to one of Lady Catelyn's brothers. Bully for them, he supposed but what does that have to do with wol-

Before Tyrion could work himself through the whole cryptic mess, Joffrey was rounding on him, nearly shaking with a sick sense of glee. "Have them send me Robb Stark's head. I'll serve your bitch wife her traitor brother's head on a platter. I'll make her kiss her mother's head goodnight. I'll-"

"No," Tyrion said low, through gritted teeth. He'd talk to Varys later since he clearly had more details and he knew he had to be the one to tell Sansa.

Joffrey's eyes widened, pleased with the dissent. "No?" A no to Joffrey gave him all the more fuel for his fire. A no meant a fight. A no meant a challenge. People were so much more fun to get a rise out of when they thought they had a chance.

Blood pulsing in his ears, he chanced a look to his father who seemed rather nonplussed by the whole thing. "No. You'll leave her be," he warned, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "She is no longer yours to torment."

"Everyone is mine to torment," the monarch reminded, leaning across a visibly disturbed Varys to spit his insults in Tyrion's face. "You'd do well to remember that, you little monster."

Managing his rage well, he allowed merely a wicked grin to cross his face. "Monster, am I? One might choose to speak more carefully to monsters, especially the ones that are succinctly real at a time when Kings are dropping like flies..." The meeting spiraled into a flurry of insults and threats, climaxing in the King being ejected from the meeting by the Hand. When all was said and done, Tywin held his son back to unleash some more threats and hurt on him, all the while making it very clear to Tyrion that he should have stayed in bed. When he was finally dismissed, Varys was waiting outside for him. He gave Tyrion as many details as he could stomach, walking him back to his quarters. He thanked him for his time and entered their chambers quietly.

Tyrion scanned the dimly lit room for his wife, finding her staring out the opened window, bathed in the waning sunlight. She looked almost serene and he longed to grant her more time. He hesitated to steel himself. Tyrion found himself lost for words. He called out to her. Sansa turned to him, eyes bloodshot tears streaming down her expressionless face, and jaw set into a firm frown. He stammered for a moment, unsure where to begin when she clearly already knew. She returned her gaze to the outside and ignored his intermittent questions. The day wore on to night. When Sansa readied for bed, she didn't call for him to join her. He stayed on the settee. He was a Lannister, after all. The message of the wedding was carried with "The Lannisters send their regards." He prayed that night again that Sansa would find relief and peace and that the victims of the wedding would find comfort in death, away from the cruelty of this world. He lay awake the majority of the night, watching Sansa's broken, fitful sleep. He longed to go to her but knew that he couldn't help her. Not now. She'd come to him when she was ready.

The following morning, Tyrion dismissed her handmaidens when they arrived. He didn't want anyone to force her to rise when she'd only finally gone to sleep just before the sunrise and if she didn't wish to leave the bed at all today, he didn't blame her. The girls nodded, unsure of what to do with their day. He promised that, if she wished to rise at any point, that he'd notify them, but otherwise, he insisted that they take the day, enjoy, and keep Sansa in their thoughts and prayers. Tyrion grabbed a book and sat on the step of the bed's platform, not willing to be any further away than that.

When she awoke that afternoon, the first thing Sansa saw was Tyrion, reading with his back to the bed. She rolled over. She didn't want to look at him. Surely, he had no part of it, but that didn't change the fact that he was one of them. He was her husband and he was one of them. She began to cry again as the realization dawned. She was Lady Lannister. The Kingsguard who had told her the whole story in vivid detail reminded her enough. She'd kept up her strong front as he regaled in the story of her goodsister's pregnancy, how the baby was cut from her belly, how her brother wept, her mother's screams as Robb was killed until her throat was slashed. He went on from there, detailing the desecration of their bodies afterward. When he'd finished, she stated plainly, "As you said, I am Lady Lannister. I have no family but my husband. The traitor Robb and all those who support him got what they deserved." Her stomach tensed as she spoke. She couldn't believe how readily she'd slipped back into the oft-practiced lies of protection. When the man left, she turned back to Margaery who wordlessly offered a hug. Sansa shook her head, grasping the girl's outstretched arms with icy fingers and turned away, heading back for the keep, hands folded and expression unchanging. She couldn't cry. Not here. Not when someone could see. As soon as she'd reached the door, she noticed her hand shaking as she turned the knob. Finding the chambers empty, she took a few steps inside and collapsed, legs giving way under the weight of her grief. She wept openly and loudly, sure that someone would hear and make her pay for her emotional outburst. When she finally managed to get up from the floor, she paced the room like a ghost, unsure of what to do. She focused on the water outside the window, it's rhythmic pace calming her, and stared. She didn't know how much time had passed before Tyrion returned, but by the expression on his face when he did, she knew he knew. At least she wouldn't have to tell him. Perhaps, she thought, she had been too harsh in closing him out, but this was her grief and hers alone.

As the days passed, Sansa had scarcely eaten or drunk anything and had spoken even less. Tyrion grew terrified of the girl wasting away before him. On the third day, he managed to coax her out onto the terrace, having had her ladies' maids bring as much variety as they could wrangle together. The handmaid Sansa was closest to even somehow found an entire plate of lemon cakes. They sat at the small table in relative silence as he tried suggesting everything he could. Before long, he found himself pleading. "Sansa, please eat something," he slid his hand over hers and eased, finding that she didn't pull away. "I swore to protect you. At least let me help you."

Sansa shook her head. "How? How can you help me?"

"I don't know, but I can try," Tyrion said shakily, observing her carefully. She was talking. She was still there.

"You can try," Sansa said flatly. "You can try," she repeated, the words feeling empty. "Tell me, how do you suggest that you would try to help me forget that they sewed the head of his direwolf to my brother's body?" She didn't look at him, but she could tell that he hadn't expected her to know that. "How they stabbed his pregnant wife in front of him so that he could watch them both fall from his grasp? Or that they slit my mother's throat to the bone and threw her naked body in the river to make a mockery of the burial rites of the Riverlands?" Her voice broke into a low sob. "How do you suppose I forget that?" She couldn't continue.

Tyrion shook his head, sliding forward in his chair to clasp her hand more tightly between his. "I would never suggest that you could forget. What I am suggesting is only that you carry on," he said. Sansa looked at him, finally, tears streaming down her face. "Your mother was a strong woman, Sansa. She would want you to fight. How can I..." Her expression grew cold and she stood to leave. She could see how badly he wanted to help, but she just couldn't. She couldn't handle hearing a Lannister speak so fondly of her mother. She crossed into their rooms and moved to the bed. "Would you like me to stay with you?" Tyrion asked from the doorway.

Sliding the curtains shut, she simply murmured, "No, thank you, My Lord."

Feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him, Tyrion covered his face in his hands. She was hurting so thoroughly and he could do nothing to stave it off. He could do nothing to comfort her. He felt utterly and completely useless.

When Sansa awoke the following morning, the room was empty. She should have expected as much, since she'd been so awful to Tyrion the night prior. She sat at the table, where some bread, cured meats, hard cheese, fruits, and wine had been left for her, with a note that simply said "Please eat something" in Tyrion's neat script. Her heart broke all over. He was trying so hard to help. It was the least she could do, she supposed, to try to accept it. She took a bite from a dried apricot and chewed it carefully before acknowledging that she was, indeed, famished and continued to pick at the tray.

Some time later, a knock came to the door and a delivery boy entered carrying a bowl overflowing with the tiniest dark blue flowers and Sansa found herself glad that she'd cried so much over the last few days because she thought, perhaps, the boy might laugh if she were to cry over flowers. He complimented her taste, noting that his shop was the only one in all of King's Landing that carried the more rare northern blooms and that her husband must truly love her to have spent so much time seeking out something as specific as Honeywort. She gave a weak smile and nodded. He certainly does, she admitted to herself only, even if he's never told me so. She saw a small piece of stiff paper inside and picked it out of the plant, reading the words, again in Tyrion's hand. "Thriving through adversity." She pressed the paper to her heart, resolving not to shut him out anymore.

When Sansa had eaten her fill, she sat down on the settee and worked through what she wanted to say to Tyrion when he returned. She could tell him how she'd hoped that, maybe, Robb could still win and they'd be able to escape King's Landing together. Or how she was glad she heard it all from a stranger and not Tyrion because she wouldn't be forced to try to divorce the man she cared about from the man who told her of her family's deaths. Or how she felt foolish for still holding on to hope that perhaps Arya was alive, that she wasn't completely without her blood, the lone wolf.

Instead, as Tyrion came in and sat beside her, all she could manage was a weak, "I miss my mother," before giving in to the sobs once more. She leaned against him and repeated it over and over as Tyrion pulled her close, his strong arms cradling her. He didn't know if it was helping, but she was letting him try. He petted her hair and rubbed her back as she wept uncontrollably.

Eventually, the couple made their way to bed and Sansa spoke at length about her family. She had told him that she didn't want to make him uncomfortable and he insisted that nothing would make him more comfortable than to hear her speak and remember her loved ones. She didn't want to eulogize. She didn't want to mourn. She didn't want to grieve, but when Tyrion phrased it as remember, she knew she could do that. She told him everything she could remember, everything from how her love of citrus came from her mother's attempts at bringing the south to Winterfell to how she'd used to seek out her father for comfort when Arya annoyed her because she'd always been a little jealous of how he'd been able to get through to her when she couldn't and their fights seemed to end quicker, as if by magic, even though it had really been her father's meddling between them to fix it. She talked and talked until she couldn't think of anything else as sleep claimed her. Tyrion stayed awake, watching her sleep soundly for who knows how long, waiting for her to wake up in a fit as she had those nights prior, but she didn't. She slept calmly and he managed to drift off as well.

They spent their morning trying to regain a sense of normalcy. While Sansa dressed, Tyrion headed off for the library to swap out some of the books he'd finished for some lighter fare he might want to share with Sansa.

When he returned, the sullen figure of Lord Tywin was heading toward him from the other direction. He thanked whichever God had anything to do with timing for this one because there was a very small list of people who he'd like to see barred from ever speaking to his wife. Tywin Lannister was one of them.

"Tyrion," he said, making his presence known in the most absolute terms.

"Father," he answered, making a little resolute bow of his head.

Thin angry lips twisting into a devilish smile, he asked, "How is your lovely wife?"

"Fine, thank you." He chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping at him. Sansa was utterly broken and it was, to the nearest he could imagine, entirely Lord Tywin's fault. Surely, Joffrey could try to take the credit, but everyone knew the boy had neither the tactical mind, networking means, or organizational restraint to pull off a strike like the one the smallfolk were calling the Red Wedding. No, it reeked of Tywin, right down to the Rains of Castamere. There was no mistaking his handiwork.

Leering down upon him, he sneered, "As the two of you have scarcely left these quarters since your wedding, I presume we should be hearing an announcement of the growth of your family any day now, correct?"

"With any luck," he said, beaming with a faux-pride.

He gave a humorless laugh and added, "At least the drunken little lust-filled beast has a reason to be so now. She is a pretty little thing, isn't she? A shame she'll be wasted on you." Tyrion frowned imperceptibly, having thought the same thing. Tywin certainly had a way of honing in on his son's own self-doubt, though he often wondered how much of it would be there if it didn't speak with his father's calculated drawl. "Don't disappoint me," he said, turning on his heel and heading back from whence he came. The deepest levels of hell, Tyrion could only hope.

"When have I ever?" Tyrion muttered to himself, opening the door to find Sansa, with her arms crossed behind the door. "And how much of that did you hear?"

Hugging herself a little tighter, she shrugged, "All of it."

Easing into the room and closing the door behind him, he reached for her arm, guiding her further inside. "Sansa," he began, struggling to come up with something helpful.

She shook her head, kneeling before him. "He was right. We're pushing our luck." Sansa reached to brush the curls from in front of his eyes with a trembling hand and smiled, a little sadly. "We should just-"

"No," he insisted. "You're hurting. You're afraid," he placed a hand atop hers. "I will not add to that, Sansa."

She rested atop her heels. "How would you be adding to it?" she asked. She hated to see him so troubled by this. She wanted to tell him that there was no way he could hurt her in that way, but she knew that he also wouldn't be swayed until she wanted him because she loved him.

"I don't know, but let's not find out," he said, meeting her eyes momentarily before heading in to put the books down.

The days that followed found them slowly regaining their footing. In fact, Sansa found herself less comfortable with being alone in the light of all that had happened.

Tyrion felt similarly, mistrusting a great many people, but when, one late afternoon a knock came on their door, the visitor was a welcome treat.

"Lady Margaery," Tyrion said, peeking around the door before opening it, welcoming her inside. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Her normal sunny smile brightened the room entirely. "I just came to check in on Lady Sansa," she said, glancing between the two, "if it's all right with you, My Lord," she added, noticing that he had gone right back to Sansa's side, wrapping a protective arm around his wife. He knew the girls were close, but she was still marrying King Joffrey which left her suspect in his eyes.

Still, he was glad to see the shift in Sansa's happiness at her friend's visit. "By all means, go right ahead," he said, gently kissing Sansa's cheek and taking a hesitant leave. "I'll leave you two to yourselves."

Margaery sat beside Sansa, placing her hand on the girl's knee. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," Sansa said, looking off somewhere and nowhere at the same time.

"I'm so sorry, sweet girl," she said, scooting in closer and draping an arm around her shoulders. "It's absolutely dreadful. Is there anything I can do?"

"Tyrion asks the same thing," she laughed.

A knowing smile played at Margaery's delicate features. "I'd imagine his help and mine wouldn't necessarily be the same," she said, nudging Sansa playfully.

"Strikingly similar, at this point," Sansa sighed. "I'm afraid I might have scared him off."

The older girl shook her head insistently, "Not possible. Your husband is absolutely taken with you."

Sansa turned a little to address her straight on. "Margaery, he looked as though he thought he might break me just to kiss my cheek. We were..." She trailed off. She'd imagined that they were certainly getting somewhere before news of her mother and Robb. "Things were good and then..." Another hesitation. They were good for her. Were they good for him? He had seemed to be enjoying just being with her, but he wasn't particularly forthcoming with how he felt. He was so lovely to keep checking in and making sure that she was okay, but she couldn't remember if he'd ever mentioned it being good for him. She sighed, deciding to push that aside for the time being. "He holds me at night when I cry, but any of the little things I was coming to enjoy, he seems not to believe that I want anymore."

"Have you given him any reason to believe that you would?" Margaery asked. When she didn't get any sort of verbal response, she tried again. "Sansa, be truthful with me. You haven't consummated your marriage yet?"

Sansa blanched. Was it that obvious? She knew she couldn't lie now, she just had to own up to it. "No," she whispered, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and very naive.

"Why not?" Margaery asked.

Leaning back into the corner of the settee, she sighed. "I don't know. He wants to. He has to want to. Sometimes when we awake in the morning, I know for sure that he wants to." The small self-satisfied smile on her face spoke volumes to Margaery that she wasn't sure Sansa herself realized. "I know that my words are on his chest but he's never said that he loves me. I don't honestly know how he feels about me. Everything he says is about friendship and protection and..." she pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them. "I sound more like an obligation."

Mimicking Sansa's motion, Margaery pulled her legs up and crossed them, resting her elbows on her knees and propping her chin in her hands. "Have you said it to him?"

"I don't know that I do," Sansa said, shaking her head. Margaery rolled her eyes. It was painfully obvious to her, but there was no use scaring Sansa with that. "I could, someday, I'm sure. But I don't know. And he's never..."

Margaery pursed her lips thoughtfully. "He may presume that you know, Sansa. It's a funny thing," she said wistfully, remembering how desperately she ached for Renly and how, even when it goes phantom with their death, it never truly goes away. "When you have that type of feeling, you do forget that it's not as clear to other people. But it never changes." She smiled. Even though trading spaces with Loras nightly pained her so deeply, seeing him happy was enough, at least for her. She'd have gone to the farthest reaches of the known world to keep him happy. "Those bonds are never gone. Talk to him about it," she insisted.

"What if he's not..."

Margaery shook her head. Instead of what she really wanted to say, she simply asked, "Would the Gods be that cruel?"

Sansa mulled Margaery's words over. When Tyrion rejoined her for dinner, she decided to broach the topic with him. She desperately needed to know that she hadn't done irreparable damage in pushing him away.

"Would the Gods be that..." Tyrion stammered, not sure he was hearing her correctly. "Would the Gods be that cruel? Sansa, have you seen me?" he asked, gesturing at his stunted frame and then his scar with disgust. "Have you seen you?" he said, gesturing at her with wonder. "Yes, they are very cruel. How can you look at the pair of us together and not think of how cruel they've been to stick you to me?" He raised from his chair and began to pace. "You were to marry the prince. Sansa, you were to be queen," he said, turning back to her, crossing his arms. "You were to have everything and I have to believe that, if you were in that position, he would not have let any harm to your mother and brother." He looked down at his feet, walking toward her slowly. "I have to believe that he wouldn't have done that to his wife. If I had just kept my mouth shut-"

"Is my father's death on your hands, too?" Sansa asked, reaching for his hands, looking them over as though examining them for blood before dropping them. "You weren't even here. We'd never even spoken. I was betrothed to him then. It didn't matter," she rolled her eyes. Nothing mattered to Joffrey, what difference would their marriage have made. All that would have meant was that she legally belonged to him and he could do as he pleased. It would have been so much worse. Could he not see that? She shifted, pulling him closer. "On the day you returned to King's Landing, he told me he'd have my head on a pike next to my father's as soon as I gave him an heir. You saw that he was a breath away from taking my hand as a lesson to my mother and brother." Tyrion frowned, pulling back a little. She was making him sound like something he wasn't. "Listen to me. You have been the farthest thing from cruel that has happened to me in a long time. The Gods gifted you to me. You may not believe me, but can you at least listen to me?" He sighed and looked at her, exasperated, but momentarily losing himself in her startlingly blue eyes. "We're married, now. I know what that means for me. Do you honestly think that I'd believed for one second that Joffrey was my soulmate?" Tyrion raised his brows a little, as though to say that, yes, the thought had crossed his mind once or twice or a thousand times. She shook her head. "I had resigned to the idea that he was an inevitability. My father didn't make the announcement until then but, Tyrion, he and King Robert were the best of friends. Their oldest daughter and oldest son? Be reasonable." She tapped her hands on her thighs emphatically, growing quite frustrated at his indignance. "How many people in our position end up married to their soulmates? No one knows Cersei's but her perpetual misery leads me to believe it was not Robert. Robert's was my aunt. My aunt died before hers was decided. Margaery's was Renly Baratheon. Loras's was Renly Baratheon. Renly's was Loras, but they could never be. My parents were but look at how things turned out for them?" Her list seemed to turn into a reminder that this whole soulmate thing was kind of a dice game, but that wasn't how she'd intended it. She tried to regain her thoughts for a moment, starting over. "Even if you end up not being mine, you're still better than anything I could ever have imagined and I will not leave you." She noticed that she was starting to soften him and continued, going in for the proverbial kill. "You know, you have never told me how you feel about me. I have tried to be honest with you; As honest as I can be given that I don't know. I don't truly know anything." He looked at her curiously. How could she not know? Sansa shook her head, moving a little so that he could not avoid her stare. "And my husband has never told me that he loves me."

"I have," he groaned, running back over the time since he'd arrived at King's Landing in his mind, trying to isolate every conversation.

"Barring our wedding vows," she said, shaking her head and pursing her lips, "you most certainly have not."

He continued the foraging through his memories. He must have when they were... no. The day they went... no. Day after day flew through his mind. "I have..." he protested, and when he noticed her subtle persistence, not anger, not sadness, just plain fact, it dawned on him. She was right, "not."

Nonplussed by the matter, she affirmed, "You have not. You spend so much time considering how I feel, but you've never once mentioned what this is for you." She smiled gently, sensing his sudden guilt and panic. "The blame for that may fall to me because I've never asked you. What does this feel like for you?"

That certainly was the question, wasn't it? He paced a little, beginning to muddle it out. He'd spent so long telling himself it would never happen that he'd never allowed himself the chance to think about what would happen if it did. Then, to find himself all of the sudden married to the woman of his dreams? He resolved to just talk through it. "Before, it was hopelessness. Before I knew that it was you, I had decided that it didn't matter. Every time it was brought up, I made a different joke," he shrugged, remembering one instance where he'd proudly told his sister that his mark read 'It's even bigger than your brother's' just to take the piss out of her. "No one knew. Well, that's not true. You should know, Sansa..." he stopped, staring at the floor. "I'm not proud of this fact, but prior to seeing you for the first time, I was angry. I was an angry, drunken, lecherous thing. I spent time in many a brothel, with many a woman. Does that bother you?" Sansa shook her head. His reputation had certainly preceded him, but even more, if she judged him for bedding women before, she'd have no leg to stand on if he ever found out how Joffrey had used her. She moved from her chair and sat on the floor in front of him, motioning for him to do the same. "Since I laid eyes on you, that day in Winterfell, I have not touched another woman. It was almost a year before I saw you again, but it was..." he rubbed his eyes. "That year was excruciating. I could think of none other but the woman I would never have. The woman I could never be in love with. I could love from afar but never, ever in my wildest dreams could I tell her. And she would never, ever love me. But something kept pulling me back to you. When I rode North, I nearly did take the Black. That was a keen observation on your part, perhaps thanks to whatever this bond represents for you." She smiled at him, liking his choice of the word bond. That was certainly accurate on her part. "But, the thought of never seeing you again was never an option. I had to hear you say these words," he said, pushing his shirt out of the way and touching them lightly. "I had to. No matter how much it pained me. I had to know. When I approached that dais where you were all sitting, it felt like the skin where your words lived was trembling, like they would jump from my chest to make themselves known to you." He thought back to that day, how sullen she looked and how much he knew he was thoroughly fucked. Being so close to her, there was no turning back. "But you were so hurt. So scared. And I had no intention of ever telling a soul. I wanted to show you kindness. To let you know that you didn't have to be alone." He reached for her hands and she sighed, offering them gladly. "I wanted to protect you. To heal you. Even now, it's like I'm drawn to you over and over again. Like I can't rest if I'm not near you. If that's not love..." That was it wasn't it? The words he'd spent so much time uselessly denying. There they were. He had to say it. "Sansa, I love you. And I know that you don't. But I love you. It is maddening and all-consuming and desperate and heartbreaking and beautiful and powerful. I can't describe it. I love you."

She smiled, leaning forward and brushing her fingers against the mark on his chest hesitantly. "Does it..." Sansa didn't know what she was asking. She wanted to know it felt any different when she touched him. "I've heard that there's a sensation when..."

"A tingling," he admitted, nodding. "Like the words are alive and that they know that they're yours." He placed his hand over hers. "The words are as much yours as the man who bears them."

"Tyrion, I..."

He shook his head. "Don't. You don't have to say it." He released her hands and moved his to cup her face. "I don't want you to. I have spent so long resigned to the fact that you won't love me. Don't say it until you're sure."

Sansa's breath quickened. His face was right there in front of hers and she needed... what did she need? "Will you kiss me, already?" she asked, knocking the wind out of him completely. "Please?" she whispered, moving even closer by half.

Tyrion could hardly believe his ears. Still, he plucked up all his courage and did as he was asked, bringing his lips to hers. He started gently. So gently. Sansa parted her lips slightly, closing them lightly around one of his, trying to deepen the kiss. He obliged in kind, nipping and sucking at her lower lip until she let out a breathless gasp. She pulled back, searching his face for some signal that he wanted to stop. Instead, he seemed just as desperate to continue as she was, so she brought her mouth back to his harder this time, inviting herself into his lap and twisting her hands into the bottom of his shirt. He laced his hands into her hair and drank her in. His tongue traced along hers, exploring as much of her kiss as she'd allow.

Finally, breathlessly, Sansa broke the kiss, lips pink and plump from such vigorous use. "Was that so bad?" she asked, a little proud of herself.

"No," he shook his head, running his thumb along her jawline gently. "Not bad at all."

"Can you say it again?" she asked, lost in her own thoughts.

Tyrion eyed her curiously. "Not bad at all." Sansa shook her head and he laughed, having figured as much. "Oh. I love you, Sansa," he said, kissing her again, very gently, thoroughly pleased with this new development.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything gets easier in time. By the end of their first turn as man and wife, Sansa and Tyrion found an ease with each other that neither had expected to reach so soon. Surely part of that was a credit to the bond of a soulmate, but sometimes, Sansa would look at Tyrion and have to stop and thank each of the seven for his existence. The world was a better place for his being in it. She knew that he didn't feel that way, but she was determined to make him see himself through her eyes.

Still, Sansa didn't think she would ever get used to waking warm and safe in his arms. On the morning that marked one month from their wedding, they woke at their own leisure. Of late, they'd fallen back into their normal bedtime habits. He, in an effort to maintain his own decorum, opted to keep to his smallshorts. Sansa had laughed at the blush on Tyrion's cheeks the first time she'd divulged that, often, she chose to sleep naked, hating the way her nightshifts tangled in the covers. It had taken some time, but she'd managed to convince him that she trusted him enough that she wouldn't think twice about it. He'd kissed her and teased that she would be the death of him. Nevertheless, on that quiet morning, Tyrion woke first. He reached for the book on his bedside table and began to leaf through it as he waited for Sansa to rise.

A few short minutes later, she began to shift and stretch. "Is that you stirring?" he asked, leaning to her and kissing her shoulder.

"Unless we've a third in the bed." She yawned and rolled over, giving him s coy smile before adding "I could always check." She ducked under the coverlet dramatically, popping her hands and feet up in her search.

Tyrion coughed out a laugh as she found her way between his legs, indeed finding a visitor. "Sansa, what is this about?" he panted, as she too began to laugh, crawling up over top of him, the blanket falling down to her hips, revealing more of herself to Tyrion than he'd ever allowed himself to see.

She lowered herself against him, whispering in his ear. "I intend to hide in this bed today and enjoy my hus-"

A cough. Unfortunately, the intruder's knock had gone unheard amongst their laughter and distraction, but Tywin Lannister was not one to be ignored. "I hope I haven't caught the happy couple at a bad time."

Tyrion blanched as Sansa rolled off of him gathering the covers up to her neck. "Father, do you mind-"

"No, not at all," he said, gesturing between them. "Lady Sansa, feel free to get up and dress. I never mind the sight of a beautiful woman."

Still a little breathless, she managed a curt, "No, thank you, My Lord."

"I wished to congratulate you on your first month as man and wife," Tywin said, walking calmly to the foot of the bed. "Another month of wedded bliss will put us just upon the eve of the Prince's wedding and the end of your honeymoon." The couple exchanged a confused glance. "Shall I be making the announcement of a new Lannister at that time, as well?"

"It would be much more likely, My Lord, if you'd not interrupted," Sansa said, tone a little sharper than she'd intended.

Tywin gave a little laugh, sounding genuinely amused by her snipe. "You are suited for him, I'll grant you," he said, nodding. He turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, "Do not keep me waiting."

After a few moments of silence to regain their thoughts, Tyrion loosed a bark of laughter. "Where did that come from?" he asked, turning to Sansa and resting his hand on the curve of her hip.

"I'm not sure," she said, blushing as she kissed him, knowing exactly where it came from, but not sure he'd believe her if she said it. "But, I think perhaps we should talk about this seriously?"

"Sansa, no," he sighed.

"Why not?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbow. "What exactly are we waiting for?"

He ran his hand back and forth across hers absently. "For you to want me."

Sansa lowered her head and scooted forward, aligning herself in his distant stare. "Have I said that I don't? I was trying," she said, rolling her eyes at her own advances, "poorly I suppose, to demonstrate that before your father barged in. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, I've had the reigns the whole time, Tyrion." She leaned forward, kissing him passionately. "I believe it might be your turn now."

"If that is the case then I most ardently say no," he insisted, sitting up and moving to extract himself from the bed.

Sansa insisted, reaching again to still him. "Tyrion, I trust you. I'm amenable to the action," she said, trying to avoid using more graphic terms. "I've always wanted children and there's no other way to achieve that than to lie together." She crawled across the bed and kneeled behind him, wrapping him in her arms tightly. "I believe with my whole heart that you would never let any sort of nefarious deeds befall our child or me. Are you really saying that we will not consummate our marriage until, what?" She tugged at his shoulder to get him to turn to face her. "Until I'm twenty-one and you know for sure that I'm not lying to you when I say that I have feelings for you? Will you need to see the words 'My Lady, I am sorry for your loss' somewhere on my flesh before you believe me?" she asked. He hung his head, realizing that that was probably the case, shameful though it may be. "I don't know what those feelings are or what they may grow to be but they're there. I care for you. I enjoy your company. I appreciate you. I desire you. I can't promise much else, but you are important to me." Sansa moved to a seated position beside him.

"Has it crossed your mind that that's not a reason?"

She sighed, "It has. But, Tyrion, it is inevitable," she said. Taking his hands in hers, she started again. "I want this. With you. Why put it off?" When he didn't seem particularly moved, she rested her hand atop his mark and lowered her voice. "Please, at least think about it. You heard him. We have one more month of this honeymoon before you'll have to go back to your small counsel duties. We've one more month to be wrapped in each other's company before you suddenly become wrapped in ledgers and debts and small council meetings and we scarcely have time to talk, let alone move closer to whatever we may become."

Tyrion nodded, his pledge to at least think about it. "And you are not just saying all of this because you're afraid or because you think you have to?"

"No. I want this with you," she said, moving closer to him and caressing his thigh lightly. "I've told you all along that there could be something here."

"I'll think about it. But, Sansa, I don't want you to be disappointed." He worried his hands a bit, turning to her. "Kindness is not a habit among Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere. I could be good to you."

She leaned against him and lowered her voice. "You have been nothing but good and kind to me, Tyrion Lannister."

"I want this to be enjoyable for you," he said, eyes glistening with emotion. "I want, more than anything else, for you to be happy."

Sansa smiled genuinely, taking his face in her hands. "You are the only reason I've had to be happy in quite some long time." She brought herself to him and kissed him deeply. She brought his hands to her body, wordlessly granting him permission to explore as he'd never allowed himself to do. He gave a low moan as his fingers trailed the underside of her breast. She pulled him back to follow her further into the bed, trailing her fingers up and down his back. They continued on in this way for quite some time. Moments, hours, who knows. It was an eternity and not long enough. Still, they knew at some point it had to stop. Breathless, Sansa asked, finally pulling away, "Was that okay?"

"Perfect," he whispered, kissing her once more before finally leaving the bed to dress for the day.

Feeling quite proud of himself, Tyrion responded to the call of a certain sharp-tongued sellsword who found himself in the city and in need of entertainment, taking along Podrick as well.

Sansa laughed at the sight of the three men together as they headed down the hall out of the residence, deciding that her husband and his old friend would likely corrupt poor, sweet Ser Podrick in short order. There was insistence upon a visit to a brothel and she felt a little sting at the suggestion. Tyrion seemed quite disinterested, though, insisting that he had all the woman he could ever want at home. "Who, by the way, explains your fondness for Lady Stark," Bronn had remarked, placing the girl's face without despite her having been introduced as 'My wife, Lady Sansa.' She blushed and hung her head, not having heard such an offhand connection to her mother made with anything but ire from anyone but Tyrion in quite some time. As the men finally made their way out of earshot, Podrick and Bronn both chiding Tyrion for having hidden that Sansa was his soulmate for so long, Sansa made her way back into their chamber.

Although one month of marriage wasn't necessarily a cause for celebration, Sansa wanted to mark the occasion in a way that would be special for them both. She'd known for some time that she wanted her husband in a more intimate capacity, but between that morning's dalliances and the way her stomach wrenched at the thought of him visiting a brothel or touching another woman at all, for that matter, she felt the urgency growing. He'd said that he would think about it, but she didn't want to think anymore.

Since she didn't know quite how long he'd be gone, Sansa decided to make a quick trip to the library. She asked the Maester for as many books on the Lannister histories as she could carry. The old man smiled, commending her on her interest in her husband's family.

As she walked back to the keep, books tied together with an old leather strap, she made one stop. She visited the wine cellar and procured a flagon each of a Smokeberry wine for herself and a deep Dornish red for Tyrion. When she finally reached their quarters, she left the books and wine on the balcony, then returned inside. She took some pillows and cushions from all around the room and arranged them into a comfortable seating area, then realized that it would soon be dark and returned for some candles in preparation. As she settled in, she began to leaf through one of the books and waited for her husband.

It was still a few hours before Tyrion returned. Sansa had lit all of the candles and permitted herself a sample of the wine as she scanned for any mention of her husband in the more recent histories. His siblings were praised often enough, but there was scant mention of him, merely his birth added seemingly as an afterthought. Her heart ached at the cruelty of it.

When Tyrion did finally make his way to their chambers, he was disappointed to find them empty and dark, before noting the flickering lights outside the open door. He removed his vest, tossing it aside haphazardly, and pushed up his sleeves, making his way to investigate. He kicked out of his boots with a thud before finally reaching the patio. "You've gotten into the wine..." he remarked, noting the flagons on the table, then took in the scene on the floor, "and the books. Without me?" he pouted, sidling in next to her under the furs.

"There's more than enough of both," she said, reaching up to the Dornish red and pouring him a goblet, "And it was done entirely with you in mind."

"Maybe you were right. We are perfect for each other." Tyrion appraised her curiously. "What's behind this?"

The woman shrugged. "A wise man once said that everything's better with some wine in the belly." She clinked her goblet against his and smiled.

He laughed, not sure when she would have heard him say that, but appreciating the sentiment either way. "What are we reading?"

"Lannister histories," she said, flipping the cover to a position that he could read it.

"Oh," he groaned, marking her taste in reading materials as much less agreeable than her taste in wine. "So, nothing good."

Sansa shook her head. "I wouldn't say that. Tell me about this man." She reached for a book left propped open to her left and pointed to a singular sentence.

"Tytos Lannister?" he asked, more than a little surprised at that being the name she chose from all of the Lannisters. "Why do you want to know about my grandfather?"

"This book is the only one that mentions him, exactly once," she said, turning to face him and scanning the page, "and it's only in relation to your father and the Reynes. Just that he was 'weak-willed and oft-mocked, with a fondness for drink.'" She quirked an eyebrow at him, as though to ask if the description sounded familiar, then gestured to the five other volumes scattered around her. "The rest don't mention him at all."

Tyrion nodded with a sigh, then took a deep drink of his wine. "That would be my father and uncle Kevan's doing, I've gathered. Lord Tytos was, from what I gather, a friendly man who, if you ask most Lannisters, nearly drove our house to ruin." Ha gave a dark laugh, thinking about how truly bizarre it was to think that someone's charity when they had more than enough was ruinous. "From the best I can surmise, mainly by my Aunt Genna's accounts, his fatal flaw was how he chose to see only the good in people. He loaned coin to his bannermen and his lords freely and never sought to the return." Suddenly, his mind made another connection. Surely, his father wouldn't have appointed him Master of Coin expecting him to fail based on Tytos's monetary failings. He shook the thought from his head and continued. "He was a kind man, by all accounts. Jovial, even. I would liked to have known him, I think. Unfortunately, I don't have many stories of him." Sansa shivered a little and he pulled her tighter to himself, wrapping them in the furs. "That's the thing with the Lannister family; when they say that the histories won't remember you, they mean it. Many of my relatives, you'll find, fit the narrative you've been shown by the ones you know."

"You don't," she said, nuzzling into his neck.

He smiled at the thought. "That's very kind of you to say." He kissed the top of her head and tried very hard to come up with any sort of story about his family that might explain the Lannisters to her. "When I was very young, maybe five-years-old, I asked my aunt Genna why my father didn't love me." Sansa worried her brows and he laughed. "I know, I know, I've always been a sad little man, I know. Instead of giving me a reason which I would have been too young to understand, or blaming it all on me being a dwarf, she simply swept me in her arms and told me a story of my Grandfather that you'd never find in any of the histories." Sansa smiled, twisting herself around so that she could watch him as he told his story. "Apparently, after my Grandmother died, shortly after my uncle Gerion's birth, he became a changed man. Not bad, not mean, but just different than he had been." He ran his hand over her legs idly as he spoke. "Where Father rejected me, Grandfather had doted and fawned on Uncle Gerion. They were close and he brought fun back to my Grandfather. Apparently, my Father and Uncle Kevan were largely undone by this. They were jealous of the bond and would have done anything for their Father's approval." He released a puff of breath watching his derision turn to steam in the air. "When it came down to it, though, nothing they could do would help. My Grandfather wasn't interested in wars or blood. And that infuriated my Father." He shook his head sadly, trying to imagine how anyone could undervalue a person who appreciated peace. "I think, perhaps, what she was getting at was that he saw enough of himself and Uncle Kevan in Jaime and Cersei, but saw too much of Gerion in me, aided by his own hatred of me for being a dwarf and for killing my mother." Sansa tutted a little and wrapped her arms around him, wishing desperately for him to one day see that his mother's death was not his fault and that his size was not a viable reason for people to have hurt him so. The fact that so many tragedies of his life stemmed back to those two facts so far out of his control made her heart ache for him. "Not wanting to hurt them as he'd been hurt, he took it all out on me. But I was so young," he sighed, trying not to let his too-sad story get in the way of what Sansa had intended to be a lovely night. "All I heard in that story was that my Grandfather would have loved me. I knew my Uncle Gerion did."

"It says that your Uncle Gerion was on a quest looking for a sword?" she prompted, trying to keep him talking.

"Something like that, yes," he affirmed. Truthfully, his uncle's last trip was somewhat of a mystery to him. The chances that the heirloom he sought hadn't been forged into other manners of Valyrian steel were slim to none. Everyone knew that, including Gerion. Tyrion had never understood how that would be the driving force behind his search. In reality, the man had crossed the narrow sea for love. The words that laid on his shoulder were in Dothraki and he had grown tired of waiting for her appear in Westeros, so he made frequent trips to Essos in search of her. No one knew for sure, but Tyrion had heard a story in a brothel, once, of a Golden Lion who'd been slain by a Stallion for trying to unburden the wife of a dead Khal on her way to Vaes Dothrak to emerge as a member of the Dosh Khaleen. He liked to imagine that it was a little more romantic than that, but he could certainly accept that as an answer to his death much more readily than over a sword.

"He sounds like someone Arya would have idolized," Sansa said, recalling how fondly she used to speak of the Targaryen women who fought battles alongside their men.

Tyrion nodded. He recalled very little of his wife's sister, save that she was a fiery lass. "That wouldn't surprise me. He was smart. And funny." He stopped for a moment, remembering a story of another little girl tying on her brother's armor and pretending to be him so she could learn to fight, too, even though she likely needn't have done so. Gerion would have taught Cersei to fight no matter what. "He saw people for who they truly were and not what the rest of the world thought they should be."

She watched as he worked his mind over memories long-since packed away. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen, I think. Old enough to remember him well." Tyrion wasn't actually sure how old he was when the man died, but he knew that he'd been in his late teens when he received his last letter from him.

Sansa tilted her head up to kiss him gently. "Thank you for telling me about them."

He leaned down, returning the gesture. "Thank you for asking. It is beautiful out here tonight," he said, not once looking away from her eyes.

Pressing herself against him tighter, Sansa kissed him again, quickly picking up where they'd left off that morning. She hitched up her skirts and brought one leg over him, remembering how much nicer it had been when he'd been over her earlier.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered, still so astounded by the worlds she kept locked away.

"Honestly?" she asked, deciding to just let herself go and tell him exactly what she was feeling in that moment. "How nice your arms feel around me. How much I like listening to you speak. How attractive your voice is." He laughed a little, not expecting that. He leaned up and kissed her. Still, she wasn't done with her list. "How good it feels to be near you." She placed a kiss on his exposed neck. "How desperately I want to keep kissing you," she said, doing so at once. She pulled back and trailed her fingers gently down his chest. "How lucky I am that I'm married to you." Tyrion gave a small, sideways grin, resting his hands on her waist. Sansa arched her back into his touch but couldn't look away from him. "How handsome you are," she said, blushing as she leaned down. "How I want you," she said, voice nearly a purr.

Tyrion snatched his hands back and shook his head, folding his arms. "That's not funny, Sansa." He tried to wriggle himself free.

"I'm not laughing," she said, raising herself to allow him to pull away and then sitting on her heels. "What's wrong?" she asked, suddenly very concerned at his reaction.

"I don't appreciate being toyed with," he answered, taking a candle from the table and retreating inside their room.

Sansa's jaw dropped and she followed him in. "Excuse me?"

"That was uncalled for," he said sadly, gesturing to the patio door.

Unable to believe what she was hearing, Sansa went immediately to his side. "You asked what I was thinking. I told you. You've been nothing but exceedingly honest with me, as best I can tell. The least I can do is afford you the same courtesy." When he remained unmoved, she tried to emphasize her honesty. "That is what I was thinking."

He shook his head, looking only at the floor. "Then, it's what the wine was thinking." There was no possible way that she could truly want him.

"I've always been told that a drunken man's words are a sober man's thoughts," Sansa said, reaching her hand out for his.

Lips turned into a distinct frown, Tyrion pulled away, knowing that if she let him touch her, he'd feel that familiar warmth and it would make it even harder to turn her down. "That's an exceedingly naive point of view. I have more than enough experience to know that's not the case," he said.

"Do you need to see how much wine is out of that flagon?" she sighed, pointing to where they'd previously come from before bringing up the number on her hand. "3 goblets. And that's over the course of an entire afternoon and evening. I'm not nearly as drunk as you seem to think," she said, growing frustrated with his inability to accept that she would never just say these things. "Just enough to not be afraid to tell you that I think I'm falling for you," she said softly, realizing that that was the one thought she hadn't yet shared. She didn't know if it was love, but she certainly cared for him and felt... something. But she was growing increasingly concerned that she'd never get to know what that was if he didn't at least let her try. In the silence after her admission, a spark of hope lit in Tyrion's eyes that warmed Sansa completely. She was getting through to him. She took a step closer, reaching for him again. "You spent the day away and all I wanted was for you to come back so I went to the library and brought back as much literature on your family as I could to learn just a little bit more about you."

Tyrion's expression turned sad again. "There's nothing in there about me.

"So I found which, believe it or not, told me quite a bit on its own and your stories about your grandfather confirmed it." She laced her fingers into his and looked at him tenderly. "The stories omit people from their lineage on the grounds of, what, good-will and gentleness in favor of brawn and ferocity? I'd imagine that that's the type of company I'd prefer to keep." He let out a breathy laugh, unable to believe that anyone would choose to keep his company knowing that people like Jaime existed. She could see the doubt creeping back in and lowered herself to her knees. "Why can't you believe that I want this? That I want you." He finally met her eyes and felt weak. She had said it again. I want you. He could hardly believe that she said it. "I know you're afraid to get hurt. But just as you've promised me that you won't hurt me, I won't hurt you." She brought herself flush against him, pushing the neck of his tunic to the side and ran her palm flat across his chest across her words. "I won't hurt you, Tyrion," she assured, kissing him again, urgently. She slid her hands to the bottom of his shirt and lifted it off.

"Sansa-" he sighed against her mouth.

"I want you," she said, running her hands up to his neck resting her forehead against his. "And I don't want to wait anymore."

Groaning in want of her, Tyrion kissed her hungrily before pacing around her once. Busying himself on the laces, Sansa felt herself startle as he brushed against a scar on her shoulder, but eased as he spoke, "May I?" Just a simple word and she could remember just who was touching her now and it made it all okay. She nodded as he released the fabric and it fell to the floor around her. He kissed her shoulder as he passed back to her front, aiding her to her feet.

As they reached the bed, she sat first, leaning forward and kissing the base of his neck. He hummed deep in his throat, closing his eyes as she entwined her nimble fingers into the waistband of his pants, sliding them off, seeing him in his entirety for the first time. Sansa's breath caught in her chest as she took in the sight.  
Tyrion found himself feeling very vulnerable, regretting having brought the candles inside. As much as it pleased him to be able to see all of her, the realization that she was in the same position and could see all there was to of him. He fought off the urge to snuff the lights and retreat to his unseen safety, but since she had already seen, there was no undoing it.

Sansa found her eyes immediately drawn to the cut of his hips, strong and muscled. She looked him up and down, slowly bringing her eyes to rest on parts of him she'd yet to see. Unsurprisingly, as she'd heard whispers in the halls, he was particularly well endowed. Tension pooled in the lowest parts of her belly and she wanted nothing more in that moment than her husband. She chewed at her lip and beckoned him to her.

"Is this okay?" he asked, sliding his hands up her thighs lightly, grazing light kisses as he did.

Sansa let out a breathy "Yes," as she ran her own hands up his muscular arms to his shoulders, trembling lightly in excitement.

He stood between her legs and found himself momentarily overwhelmed, something that hadn't happened with a woman since he was a boy. This wasn't just any woman. This was Sansa; the Maiden made flesh but so much more. She was real and here in front of him, wanting him. And he loved her. He reached to caress her, moving his hand up her side to her pert, rounded breast. He guided her back onto the bed and eased himself in beside her. He trailed featherlight kisses up her arm, across her chest, down her abdomen, discovering her most sensitive areas with pleasure. "It seems..." he drawled, sucking down a little harder as he reached her ribs, "that this pleases you greatly."

Moaning her response, she dug her nails into his back possessively. Her mouth opened and closed instinctively a few times, needing to do the same. Sansa rolled them both over so that they were on their sides. She kissed him hard, her body moving to his instinctively. "My turn," she said, voice thick with need. She kissed his jaw, his neck, finally hesitating for a moment to suck at the area where his mark sat, curious as to how his body would react to the stimulation.

Tyrion's hips hitched at her motions, warmth flowing through him immediately, feeling his cock throb hard.

Sansa smiled against his flesh, feeling him stir to life. That was exactly the reaction she had hoped for. Her soft hand closed delicately around his velvety length and she began pumping gently. She smiled as his eyes fluttered closed and he began to thrust against her hand.

"Harder," he breathed, closing her hand tighter with his, demonstrating. He leaned toward her and kissed her, his free hand tangling in her hair, tugging it lightly. Sansa gasped in surprise. Tyrion opened his eyes, making sure that she was still enjoying. When he saw her smile, he couldn't help himself. He moved his own hand from hers and trailed it around the entrance to her sex. He ventured in a finger and found her already slick with want. He swirled it around until he found the sensitive bundle of nerves near the top and began encircling it slowly.

Reveling in the new sensation, Sansa's back arched and she found herself bucking against his hand. Her breath grew jagged. Her heart rate quickened. She moaned. "Tyrion." A cry. She wanted him. She needed him nearer.

The sound of his name dripping from her lips in such a sensuous tone drove him wild. "Are you sure?" he asked, panting. "If you want to stop-"

She kissed him hard, rolling on to her back and guiding him with her. "Please," she said, urging him on with her voice more air than tone, leaning forward to kiss him again, brushing his hair from in front of his eyes. She swallowed thickly, chest heaving as she tried to keep from pulling him in herself. He was being so patient with her, so kind, and she didn't know how to respond.

Bracing himself against her thigh, he gently glided the tip of his member inside of her, filling her slowly with his manhood. Sansa moved to him pleasure filled noises caught in her throat. He began thrusting slowly, taking care not to hurt her, but she showed no signs of pain. Building speed, he took a sharp intake of breath as she sat up, snaking her legs up around his hips and clinging to him. He straightened his legs under her and let his hands wander up from her legs to the lift of her ass.  
Sansa began to move rhythmically with Tyrion. Her eyes fluttered closed and her mouth relaxed. Her blood sang in ecstasy. She felt as though she was chasing something unknown and exciting and just out of reach. Sweat beaded on her chest and her movements became much more deliberate.

Sensing her urgency, and knowing he, too, couldn't hold out much longer, Tyrion began to thrust harder.

Her mouth searched for his as she pressed him back against the bed. Her kisses were much more frantic as she began to lose herself in the moment, her body working together with his almost without her control.

His hand found its way back to her center, working at her pleasure until she began to cry out in broken pants. Hearing her so riled up for him drove Tyrion over the edge, spilling his seed inside of her in the heat of the moment. Sansa was right behind, moaning his name as she finished.

Sansa's breathing began to calm and she rolled to his side, kissing him again and again, breaking the kiss to really look at him, sweat-drenched and bathed in the afterglow. She made herself comfortable in his arms, sleepy and calm and satisfied in a way she didn't know existed. Dancing her fingers through the coarse curls on his chest, she drifted off to sleep, safe in the arms of a man who loved her.

As she slept, Tyrion's mind began to race. He'd really just done that. He'd consummated his marriage to his soulmate. She'd seemed to enjoy it, but oh, gods, what if she hadn't. What if it never happened again? What if she'd wake in the morning and hate him for what he'd done? He'd promised not to touch her until she was ready Had he pushed? Had he taken advantage? His mind swirled with all the ways he'd just wronged this woman he loved so desperately. They'd been fighting. She'd been drunk. She had to have been more drunk than she let on, otherwise, why would she have been so adamant about wanting him? She had to get herself drunk. She was scared of his father's intrusion that morning. Had he forgotten that fast? She was just trying to do what had to be done. She didn't want him. She couldn't want him. "What have I done?" he whispered to no one. He knew that Sansa was a grown woman, but after everything she'd been through, she deserved, at least, to be able to trust that her husband wouldn't take advantage of a situation. "Oh Gods, what have I done?" he asked again, knowing no one would hear. Still, he held her as she slept, the fear of what would happen when she awoke and realized threatening to suffocate him.

The morning was a fair one. Warm winds blew in through the still opened door to the balcony. The sun shone brightly. Still, something felt off when Sansa began to stir. "Good morning," she said, voice still heavy with sleep. Tyrion looked haggard, as though he'd scarcely slept or moved all night. "What's wrong?" she asked, suddenly worried that something dire had happened.

"Sansa, I'm sorry," he said, looking at her with tears stuck in his eyes. "I shouldn't have..."

She moved closer to him, propping herself on her elbow. "Shouldn't have what?" She placed her hand on his chest but he recoiled guiltily. "Tyrion, talk to me," she urged, reaching instead to clasp his hand.

"I took advantage of you," he said, unable to meet her eyes.

Struggling to follow his thought process, she began to repeat his words, "Took-" even that didn't seem to help. "How?"

Tyrion excused himself from the bed, grabbing his pants from the floor. "We were fighting and drunk and..." he trailed off, trying not to mention how he'd failed her. "That's not how that was supposed to go."

"Last night was incredible, Tyrion," she said, sliding off the bed after him, wrapping herself in her dressing gown. "If you wait for everything to go the way it's supposed to, it'll never go at all." She followed him as he collected their clothing from around the room and continued talking, despite his distance. "If that was what you consider a fight, I'll need to tell you about the row my Mother and Father had the first time he took Bran out on a hunt. The walls shook. All of my siblings and I spent the night in the same room because we figured that if they decided to turn on one another there was strength in numbers." She gave a short laugh, beginning to see just how set in his insistence he was. He donned his shirt and vest, seeking his discarded boots. "That was a fight. Last night was a discussion. A passionate one, I'll grant you, but that was not a fight." She reached for his arm and stopped him, finally managing to get him to look her in the eye, hoping it would help. "And I was more than willing. You did not take advantage. If anyone took advantage, it was me. I was adamant." She folded her arms, digging her heels in, suddenly unsure of whether it had been as good for him as she'd hoped. "If you weren't comfortable with the way it happened... Was it me? Was I not what you'd hoped I would be?"

He looked up at her, floored that she could ever think that. "Sansa, no. No, that's not it at all," he insisted, taking her hand gently and leading her to the settee.

"Then, why?" she asked, sitting as he suggested, but growing concerned when he didn't do the same.

Pacing the room, he spoke to dead air. "You don't love me. It's not fair to you." Tyrion found his shoes, stepping into them and groaned a little, frustrated with himself.

"I let how I feel for you get in the way of what is right. I'm sorry, Sansa."

"Where is this coming from?" she asked, rising to follow him as he made his way to the door. "Tyrion, talk to me," she called after him, trying to will him to hear in her voice that it wasn't that. "Wait!"

Despite the warm air, Sansa couldn't help but think to herself that Winter was indeed coming.


	9. Bonus Scene A (Sansa)

Sansa stormed back to the chambers she shared with Tyrion from another woefully unproductive day, having made absolutely no progress in getting her husband to pay her any attention after he'd stormed out, not believing she truly wanted him, despite her adamant insistance. She flung herself backwards onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, then reached for a pillow and covered her face with it. She let out a strangled groan that turned into an elongated whine of "Why?" Shrugging off the darkly humorous thought of leaving the pillow on her face to time whether it or the weight of his silence would suffocate her first, she simply groaned again, rolling over onto her belly and knocking her head against the soft cushion a few times in frustration.

From behind her, her handmaiden, who had been gathering their washing, asked in her thick Lorathi accent, "Why what, My Lady?" She set the basket down and moved closer to the bed.

She propped herself up on her elbows, startled by the voice. "Oh, Shae, I didn't know you were here."

"I'm always here," she lauged, folding her arms. "What's wrong? Is your lion still being more of a wounded kitten?"

With a sigh, Sansa nodded, gesturing for Shae to sit beside her. "Unfortunately. I just wish he'd listen." She covered her eyes with her hands for a moment before dragging them down to rest on her neck, rubbing the knot developing just behind her ears. She corrected herself. "No, he listens. I wish he'd really hear me."

Shae swept the younger girl's hair back over her shoulder, gazing at her sympathetically. "So, he's as much a man as any other. Behind all that kindness and inteligence you praise is just as much self-obsession and stupidity as the rest." She gave a dry laugh.

"No," Sansa said, exhaling pointedly. "Maybe. I don't know. He's just so scared and so hurt."

The darker haired woman pursed her lips slightly, casting a telling stare at her. "But you're not?"

Shaking her head, Sansa dropped back onto the mattress again. "No. Not about this. I have the benefit of surity when it comes to how he feels about me. There's no denying it." She pinched at the bridge of her nose, trying desperately not to allow her head to pound. "Even when he's run off and given in to the horrible thoughts he has about himself, I have irrevocable proof." Sansa turned her head to Shae, choosing not to notice her pitying reaction. "If I could speed up time and reach my twenty-first nameday just to give him the same peace and confidence that I have, I would. I'd do anything for him to understand." She stared back at the ceiling, feeling remarkably silly for how this was bothering her and remarkably stupid for not being able to fix it. "I'm trying. I really am. He just won't hear me."

Sliding onto her side, the handmaiden rubbed the girl's shoulder, trying to comfort her. "In my experience, men need to have things shown to them." When Sansa loosed a displeased groan, tapping her hands on the bed in increasing frustration, all Shae could do was laugh. "Not necessarily like that, My Lady. They need it to be as plainly in front of them as you can manage to give it."

"I may as well have thrown myself at him. How much plainer could I have made it?" Sansa whined.

"Have you told him you love him?" Shae suggested.

Sitting up, the young bride worried her fingers together. "I don't know that I do."

Even without looking at her, Sansa could almost hear Shae roll her eyes as she asserted, "You do."

"How do you know?"

A coy smile played at her lips. "I just know." She smoothed the back of Sansa's mussed hair down.

"You just know?" Sansa scoffed. "Forgive me, Shae, but that doesn't really help."

Pulling one knee up onto the bed, she sighed, leaning forward. "Sansa," she said, "you are a sweet, beautiful young woman who turns the head of every man she walks by and you've never once noticed because you only have eyes for one. In as long as I've been in your service, you've never once looked at another the way you look at Lord Tyrion." Her Lady continued to stare at her hands as she continued. "You're sure that his words will appear on your chest. You've told me once that you remember what he said as clear as if it were yesterday, even though it was months ago." She inched closer to the girl, draping her arm around her shoulders. "After everything you've been through, you willingly got into bed with this man. Prior to this misstep, you've scarcely left his side since you were married. And you're not sure you love him?" She didn't buy it for a minute.

Sansa hadn't thought of it that way. "I... I'm not," she stammered. "I'm not sure I would even know if I were."

Knocking her shoulder into the girl fondly, Shae smiled warmly. "Say it to him. You'll know."

Rising from the bed, the younger woman moved toward the window and then back. "He has to talk to me first, or at least not run away when I try to talk to him."

"How hard would it be to restrain the little man?" the handmaiden wondered aloud, raising her eyebrow suggestively.

"Shae!" she squeaked, trying to suppress a laugh, before scolding her. "That's not right."

"See? I make a well-meaning joke and you jump to defend him." She stood, picking the washbasket back up and propping it on her hip. "You love him. That is love," she said, as casually as she'd mentioned that her dress was blue or that there was a book on the table.

Sansa smiled and clasped her hands behind her back. "I suppose," she said, before lifting her brows and blinking twice, unmoved. "It could also be an ill-mannered handmaiden."

The girls moved toward the door. As Shae prepared to take her leave, she stopped and asked, "What are you going to do to get him back?"

She turned to the woman she'd come to trust so easily, despite her claims that she shouldn't. She supposed it was because she was trying to hide that Tyrion had brought her to the city and secured the position for her as a kindness to Bronn so that the woman he loved would no longer have to sell her body and that he'd know where to find her. When Bronn had appeared She still hadn't told Tyrion that she knew that, but it didn't matter. Truthfully, it made her appreciate Shae's company even more. "What can I do?"

"You're a wolf. Show him how you howl. Then, remind him that he's a lion and has made you one, too. Make him roar with you," she coached, then left, leaving Sansa to ruminate on her advice.


	10. Bonus Scene B (Tyrion)

A week after he'd slunk away from his wife in a fit of self-hatred and misplaced guilt, Tyrion sat in his study, exhausted, lonely, and feeling helplessly low. When a knock at the door ushered in Bronn, he had thought that the sellsoword would be a welcome distraction.

He'd thought that, that is, until the man opened his mouth.

"You look like shit."

As he sauntered in and plopped himself in a chair, Tyrion closed the door behind him, rolling his eyes. "Thank you, my friend," he said, suddenly wishing he'd not opened it in the first place. He crossed to the side table, took two glasses and the flagon of wine, and brought it to his desk, pouring one for each of them.

Bronn raised his eyebrows, folding his arms. "Is that what we are?"

"If we're not, then why are you here bothering me?" Tyrion huffed, edging himself onto the window seat.

"Because you pay me to be here bothering you," he shrugged.

With a laugh, Tyrion eyed him curiously. "Does that somehow diminish our friendship?"

Swirling his cup, he bobbed his head once, turning the corners of his lips down as the thought about it. "I suppose it enhances it," he surmised, taking a swig of the deep red liquid.

"Then, be a friend and let me wallow in my self-loathing without adding to it," the Master of Coin moped.

Unimpressed, Bronn leaned back in the chair, bringing his feet up on the corner of the desk with a thud. "So, I take it you still haven't fucked that wife of yours yet."

Of course, that was why he was here. To pester him about his personal life. Glorious, he thought. He glowered at him, making a dismissive noise that sounded like a "Puh."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"I-" Tyrion started, struggling to find the words. "We..." He tried again, hoping that he'd find the right way to phrase it without making it sound as stupid as he'd made it. "She-" he sighed, hanging his head.

Cocking his head to the side, hoping to coax the thought from his friend, he interrupted, "That would be the group of people to whom I was referring; You, she, you in the collective." He punctuated his thought with a gesture of his hand from Tyrion to the door and then a circle, as though tying the two objects together.

Resigned, picking at the knee of his trousers, Tyrion gave a quiet, "We have."

"No good?" Bronn asked, surprised by the admission. "I thought that soulmate shit meant it was supposed to be all charged and tingly."

"Like you don't know," Tyrion levelled, refrencing the girl he'd brought to King's Landing at Bronn's request when they left the battlefield all those months ago. She had been a whore with dark curls and a heavy Lorathi accent, hoping to make trade with some of the Lannister soldiers. Tyrion hadn't been near enough to them when they spoke for the first time to hear their exchange, but it was clear from the way she beamed and the way his knees seemed to weaken that she was the one for him. Unable to stand in the way of true love, he'd secured her a place in the Red Keep, to keep an eye on Lady Sansa. He didn't ask that she violate the girl's privacy by reporting back to him, but just make sure that, if he wasn't there, to take care of her. In the time before their marriage, it had been the best he could think to do. Her residence in King's Landing kept her safe and cared for, and for that Bronn was grateful.

The gruff, older man coughed a laugh. "Alright, so's I do," he said dismissively. "Then, why do you look like so pathetic?"

Tyrion shrugged, staring into his cup. "I haven't been sleeping."

"So, send for some essence of nightshade and have the lady ease you off," he suggested, folding his arms and raising his goblet to his lips, adding, "You'll wake up a new man."

Releasing a tense breath, Tyrion shook his head sadly. "If only it were that simple. A new man is what I need to be," he confessed, gesturing to himself.

Face scrunched in bewilderment, Bronn scoffed. "What are you on about?"

"She deserves the husband of her dreams, not some old, beaten-down dwarf," he mused, seeming to deflate with each of his own insults.

"Old?" he laughed, thoroughtly bemused by Tyrion's investment in his guilt. "You're not even thirty, are you?"

Bronn was older than Jaime by half again, at least, he supposed, but that didn't change the fact that, sometimes, when his wife would laugh in earnest, he'd see the difference in their age and he'd feel like he was taking some of that youth from Sansa. Leaning back against the window, enjoying the feel of the cool glass against his flushed cheek. He knew he was being foolish, but there was no need to be mocked. Granted, if he didn't want to be mocked, he should have just slammed the door in the man's face. "No. But she's not even twenty," he groaned, trying not to sound like the old coot he felt he was.

"And? She could be a whole lot younger," his friend reminded him, raising to refill his glass and handing the flagon off to Tyrion. "I doubt the girl gives a rat's red ass you're a dwarf. And she's your fucking soulmate. Who d'you think hers will be?" He rested against the edge of the man's desk, trying not to look as frustrated as he was.

Tyrion topped off his wine, then looked up at him. "Truthfully? For her sake, some tall, handsome, young knight." He took a deep drink and paused. "Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if it were Podrick."

"Doubtful," he interjected, having heard the lad whispering with some Waters girl who apprenticed for one of the tailors in town.

After a moment's consideration, he continued, admitting the biggest concern he had with the whole thing. "I fear it'll be Joffrey and then I'll have done nothing but ruined her chances at true love."

"Shouldn't his lack of a mark should be a comfort there?" Bronn asked, as though it was the plainest thing in the world.

"Yes, but just because the Gods seemingly determined that he was incapable or unworthy of giving that type of love, doesn't mean that they wouldn't have decided that someone somewhere might help him." He looked off somewhere past his friend, trying to remember if he'd ever encountered such a story. "I've never heard of it happening, but I'd also only heard mention of a mark not coming in a few other times, so there's not much documented. Either way, the thought of having to watch her go back to him and not be able to help her..."

Bronn had to admit, in his limited experience with the young King, the idea of a girl as sweet as Sansa being forever tethered to him did sound like a fate worse than death. He imagined how he'd feel if he had to watch Shae endure some of the things he knew Tyrion had interrupted of Sansa and shuddered. He'd have torn the prick limb from limb, punishment be damned. Still, he knew that that wasn't the way that things worked in Tyrion's world. He did what he could and no one would ever fault him for using his head instead of a sword. "He's a right cunt, that one," he assessed.

"Not entirely accurate," Tyrion mused curiously.

Shocked at what seemed like a defense of Joffrey, the man clicked his tongue against his teeth. "How's that?"

"He lacks both the depth and warmth." With a grin at his joke, the Master of Coin drunk deep his wine.

Throwing his head back, Bronn roared a laugh, nearly choking on his own wine. "I'm going to have to remember that one." The pair sat in silence for a moment as he continued to mull his friend's predicament over. "Still, what does any of that have to do with your sorry self looking like shit?"

Giving in to his prodding, Tyrion sighed. "Sansa managed to talk me into bed a few nights ago and-"

Bronn put his cup down on the desk with a clink, cutting him off. "Talk you into? I've never heard-"

Raising his hand to silence him, he continued. "And it was incredible. Better than I could have ever imagined. And right after, everything came crashing down around me." He shook his head, appearing to look at a point somewhere above Bronn's head. The Gods, perhaps. "I violated her trust," he confessed.

"She had to talk you into it," the baffled sellsword asked, crossing to sit beside him, "and somehow you violated her trust?"

"Yes."

Lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them, he mentioned, again, hoping that hearing it from someone else but his own head would make him realize how daft he sounded, "Let me get this straight. Your soulmate," he jerked his head in the direction of the door, "your beautiful, young, devoted wife comes to you on her hands and knees, begging you to fuck her and you want to and you do. Afterwards, instead of feeling like you'd just conquered the bloody world with your magical, mythical, good-luck dwarf cock, you feel like you've defiled The Maiden?"

Tyrion groaned, eyeing his companion with mounting frustration. "Graphic. Thank you, Bronn. Truly helpful."

"And I'm not done," he said, raising his brow and cocking his head to the side.

"Wonderful."

He nodded in the direction of the pile of dishes on the table across the room, meaning, too, the stacks of books on everything and nothing, and the generally disarray of the room. "By the looks of this office, which you're not even supposed to be in for another month, you've been spending the majority of your days here, and not with said lovely wife. Have you been sleeping here?" he asked, grabbing the cloak from behind him that was clearly being used as a blanket.

"No," the so-called half-man half-lied. "The settee in our chambers."

"What for?"

A weak shrug. "So that I won't be tempted to rush her again."

"Rush her?" Bronn laughed. "Are you hearing yourself? She's demonstrated that she's more than willing. What the fuck are you waiting for?"

Tyrion couldn't answer that. He didn't know what he was waiting for. He had married a woman who was, admittedly, better than the girl of his dreams. She was patient to a fault. She never shied from him, in fact demonstratively starting most of their more heated moments. There was absolutely no reason for it as far as the eye could see. He was trying to move past his years of self-loathing. He was. But he couldn't just ignore almost twenty-nine years of abuse from nearly everyone he'd ever known.

Having long since grown tired of Tyrion's brooding silence, Bronn stood, meaning to leave. "You're a depressing little shit, you know that?"

"I do," he admitted readily. "But, I don't pay you for the insults. The ones already in my head don't need company."

Bronn snorted a laugh. "You don't pay me enough to get out of them."


	11. Chapter 9

Winter is coming. Those were the Stark words. But Sansa was a Lannister now, by merit of her husband. So why did it feel like Winter was high in her bedroom?

"One week," Sansa told herself that first night. "I'll give him one week and then he has to talk to me."

For the week after he'd walked out of their chamber, Sansa had taken to going back to court because that was the only way she would see him. Tyrion would hover near the back, bored by it all. She would find her way to his side, but he'd never turn to face her. She could tell he knew she was there. He'd flinch if she tried to take his hand. Not wanting to push and scare him off, she'd instantly withdraw. When the time came for Court to be dismissed, he'd simply offer a brief "My Lady," and make haste for, as far as Sansa could assume, anywhere she wasn't. She'd hear him return to their chambers late at night and call to him. He'd answer that it was, indeed, him and to go back to sleep. She found the whole thing particularly exhausting. She knew in her heart she hadn't done anything wrong and she certainly didn't believe that he did.

On the final day of that week, Sansa put on her most jaw-dropping dress. It had been a wedding gift from one of the sewing circles that met in the gardens. When her handmaidens saw it that morning, they'd all cooed over the beautiful red satin and gold embroidery. When they'd put it on her, they'd made such a fuss, saying that she'd be the most beautiful Lady at court and that it seemed such a waste to wear it for something so normal. Sansa knew better. She shared a knowing wink with the girl she'd grown closest to, whose opinion she valued most. The girl returned a pleased smile. The garment screamed Lannister and if that didn't get his attention on its own, the daring neckline and cutout at the small of her back certainly would.

Instead of venturing into the court, she waited outside the doors. When the whole crowd exited and Tyrion wasn't among them, she found herself disappointed but worried. Before letting her mind wander, she decided to check in at his study.

The whole way to the Master of Coin's office, she tried desperately to explain to herself what could have really caused this, but she came up empty. She knew he had had quite the traumatic upbringing and that he felt guilty for so many things that were in no way shape or form his fault, but that didn't explain the inconsistency of his responses. He loved her. She knew he did. He wanted her. She was... fairly certain, despite recent evidence to the contrary. It pained her to see him so troubled, so baffled by her affection. All along, all he had asked of her was her trust, which she gave implicitly. Was it so much for her to ask for some in return? Surely, he trusted her on a surface level. He opened up to her readily enough. Still, when it came down to believing her words and her actions, he didn't seem capable. She knocked on the door but was greeted by a familiar soft snore. She pushed the door open gently.

And there he was, asleep on the window seat with a book rested on his chest. She crept in quietly; He'd looked so haggard the last time she'd seen him, she knew he needed the sleep. Truthfully, so did she, but she could wait until this evening. She was determined to thaw this once and for all. She sat atop his desk and waited patiently, flipping through a book on the architecture of King's Landing.

Before too long, he began to stir and she straightened her skirt and her posture, making sure she was the picture of perfection, despite chiding herself over making such a fuss. When he finally opened his eyes and blinked the room into focus, he sat up, startled. "My Lady, you look well," he said, scrambling to his feet.

"Thank you, My Lord," she replied instinctively, before realizing that was exactly what she was trying to avoid. "Tyrion, wait," she groaned, sliding off the desk and catching him by the hand, turning him to face her. "Why are we back to this 'My Lord, My Lady' nonsense? Everything was going so well and now it's been a week." He took a deep breath and stared at his feet, adding this to his ever-growing list of things to feel guilty about. She slipped her hand under his chin and gently redirected his gaze to her. "A week since you've even looked at me. And I can't stop looking at you. And looking for you," she said, gesturing with her hand to the door. She lowered her voice, lips twisting into a frown. "I miss you, Tyrion. You're gone most of the day, even though there's no real reason to be, and when we're in the same room, it's as though you may as well be on the other side of the planet." She leaned back against his desk, folding her arms in much the same way she used to when Arya didn't get punished for splashing her with mud. "In three weeks time, this honeymoon will be over and I don't want to regret not making the most of what time we have here. Who knows what happens after?" She'd never tell him, but the thought of what would happen when he went back to his work and she was left alone terrified her. Not just the implications of being alone in their rooms with the King skulking about the castle, but what would happen to their fledgling relationship. She was truly growing attached to him. She could feel herself brimming with newfound emotions that belonged to him and him alone. "You're my best friend, Tyrion. I don't want to lose you." Tyrion began to pace again, worrying his fingers as his mind ran wild. He hadn't expected her to ever care for him. And here she was saying that he was her best friend inside of a month. Truthfully, she was his as well. He had missed her terribly and had thought every night for the last week to climb into bed with her and apologize; to sweep her into his arms and kiss her and beg for forgiveness for being stupid and scared. Still, he remained silent as Sansa grew frantic. "Say something! Gods, I care about you and I enjoy being with you and I value you and..." She felt like she was grasping at something. All she wanted was him. "You mean the world to me. I know that's not what you want to hear but I can't... I can't give more than that right now. I won't say the words you and I both know you need to hear until I'm absolutely sure because I couldn't bear to see the look on your face if you didn't believe me. I couldn't cause you any more pain than I know I already have." He stopped, facing the door, for much the same reason as she was describing. He buried his face in his hands, unable to look at her as she spoke. "I know what is in my own heart better than anyone else. It's you. If I didn't feel it, I wouldn't say it." He still refused to turn. Sansa hung her head in defeat. "I don't know what else to do. You said you would never hurt me and if you walk out of this room right now, Tyrion Lannister, you'll wound me more than a thousand Joffreys ever could." She moved to come between him and the door and rested her back against it. "What did I do? What can I do to fix it?" He looked up at her and she could feel his sadness.

Tyrion swallowed hard, willing the lump in his throat to vanish. "I wasn't going to leave. I don't know what came over me. I just..." He rubbed his nervously sweaty palms on his pants. "I just never expected any of this. Sansa, I'm sorry. I love you I don't deserve you-"

Stepping toward him, she winced and began to protest. "Stop that."

"No, I don't deserve you and I don't want to..." He reached his hands for hers and instantly began to calm, "I don't want to trick you into believing you want me when you don't. I love you, but that doesn't mean you are under any obligation-"

Sansa's heart sank. "Do you really believe that? I don't see you as an obligation." She brushed his disheveled curls from in front of his eyes, noticing how badly he needed a shave as she trailed her hands down his cheeks to cup his jaw. Hopeless, she thought fondly. Whether about herself or her husband, she'd never know.

Tired of fighting and desperate for things to return to how they had been, he tried one more time to explain. "I overstepped. I told you I would wait until you wanted to and you said it, but I still have trouble believing it, especially after our visitor that morning." He sighed, adding, "You were worried about what my father would do if we didn't and I took advantage."

She clasped her hands in front of her, expression stoic. "I know what being taken advantage of feels like and I assure you, that was not it." Tyrion swallowed thickly, trying not to think about what that could mean. "Did you have any malicious intent in bedding me?"

"No," he said quietly.

Her lips drew into a thin line. "Do you regret it?"

"Absolutely not." He reached for her, taking the silken fabric of her dress into his hand, pulling it away from her legs, watching it move intently instead of looking at her.

Curiously, she watched his motion, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Nor do I."

His attention snapped back to her. He lost himself in her soft, calm gaze. She was serious. "You don't?" he asked, still needing confirmation.

"No. Tyrion, what can I do to make you believe me?" No response. She'd expected that. "You're my husband and I want a life with you." She leaned forward and kissed him gently. "A married life with all that the word implies. Can you, please, just try to believe me?" He nodded, but she continued with one more request. "Try to have some faith in us?"

Us. She still wanted an 'us' after the way he'd acted. "Sansa, I'm sorry," he said, placing his hands on her hips and staring up at her. He wished he'd had more to say, but that was all he could pull together.

She smiled softly, letting her hands fall to his shoulders. "It's forgiven. Just, please, don't pull away from me again, Tyrion. I've missed you so much." She wrapped him tightly in her arms and lowered her voice. "I can't do this alone."

"You're not, Sansa," he assured, kissing her temple before he pulled back, taking her hand in his. "As long as I'm here, you're never alone."

The pair took their time walking through the Red Keep hand in hand back to their chamber. As people in the halls began to notice and whisper behind their hands, Tyrion felt himself begin to panic but one glance at Sansa steeled his nerves. She didn't even seem to notice. In fact, if she did notice, she seemed to enjoy it as much as any newlywed would enjoy being seen with their spouse. She almost seemed proud. He tightened his grip on her hand and kissed it gently.

Sansa's confidence waned as the King and his entourage made their way toward the couple. Beginning to feel a familiar terrified tremble in her knees as they approached. The couple glanced at each other as he came to a stop in front of them. As she dipped into a courtsey, Sansa feared she might topple over. Tyrion merely bowed his head.

"Uncle, lovely seeing you out today," Joffrey said, cocksure grin toying at his thinly pressed lips as he stared only at Sansa. "Tell me, how are you enjoying my cast-off?"

Stepping in front of Sansa protectively, Tyrion's voice dipped threateningly low. "Some would say that the second life is the more fulfilling one. A reworked blade is said to be superior, is it not?"

The onlookers in the hallway had begun to scurry off, fearing the King's wrath, leaving them alone with Joffrey and his men. Sansa wondered if one of these men had been the one to attack Tyrion in battle. As the men growled back and forth at each other, she found her mind making its familiar trek to far off places in avoidance of the King. She couldn't help it anymore. She wanted to hear Tyrion standing up for her. She wanted to be able to stand up for him when the time inevitably came, but she couldn't bring herself to focus. If she focused on the conversation, she'd hear his words as threats and shut down. She couldn't do that. She stared at the pattern of ash on the wall behind the sconce as their voices swam in and out. Sansa didn't notice that the King had stormed off.

Tyrion turned to her to ask if she was alright, but seeing the distance in her eyes, he knew she wasn't. He tugged her hand gently to guide her into the stairwell. Guiding her to sit on a low step, he stood in front of her. "Are you alright?" No response. "Sansa, can I touch you?" She nodded a little, breathing uneven and shallow. He ran his hands along her arms once and began to speak, soft and low. "Sansa, what happened out there?" He moved closer, sweeping her hair behind her shoulder and resting his hand along her neck. She seemed to startle at the touch, so he moved instead to her cheek. Tyrion's mind snapped back to the faded bruises around her neck and chest when Clegane had brought her back to the keep after the Fleabottom riots and realized what must have happened. He'd heard of soldiers returning from battle and retreating inside themselves at the sound of a tin plate hitting a wash basin because their mind had equated it to a sword on a breastplate. This must be something similar. If only he knew what to do. "He's not here anymore," he said gently, willing her to hear him. "Sansa, you're safe now. I've got you." He laced his fingers in hers, hoping she'd be able to feel the difference between his touch and the King's. The way her grasp tightened on him told him he was right. "Do you want to go outside? Perhaps the sun and the breeze will help?" he asked. Sansa nodded a little, her eyes growing clearer and more focused on him. "Here, allow me," he said, helping her up and bringing her hand to rest on his shoulder, closing his around hers.

As they made their way to the courtyard, Sansa's grip on reality began to strengthen; The smell of her soap wafted from her hair, the rough leather of Tyrion's doublet and the solidity of his frame under her hand, the sound of their footsteps on the stone. She was with her husband and she was safe. As safe as she could ever be, given the circumstances.

Pushing open the heavy door open, Tyrion led Sansa out into a secluded area of the courtyard where they could be alone. A bench was situated in the corner, surrounded by potted Miller's Palms. They sat in silence for a while, Sansa still reeling from her episode. He didn't want to push if she wasn't ready to talk. She rested with her eyes closed and her face turned toward the sun. Tyrion simply watched her, wondering what horrors she'd endured at the King's hand. What had he missed?

In her time at King's Landing, especially since her father's death, Sansa had been prone to such episodes. She could never really tell what would specifically bring them on, but it was usually Joffrey. When she'd finally root herself back into the moment, she'd be as tired as she'd been when she would run through the snow after her siblings as a girl. She cursed herself for being so affected by her past. "Does it ever snow in King's Landing?" she asked, taking a deep breath in and missing the sting of the frost as it lay in the North.

"Not to my knowledge," he replied, eyes searching the blue sky for a moment. "It gets cold, but nothing like you're used to."

Opening her eyes, she turned to face him, pulling her left leg under her right. "Do you think we'll ever get to leave here?" she asked, hesitantly. She was fairly certain she knew the answer anyway, but the thought of never having to face the King again was a particularly attractive one.

Considering several different paths, Tyrion couldn't see any possibility of that happening. Not for both of them. Still, he didn't want to close the hope entirely. "As far as I know, it's unlikely," he answered carefully. There were two very small slivers of hope he could offer. "My father could use forces to take back Winterfell and one day you and any children we have may end up back there, but it seems unlikely that it will be anytime soon," he said. Sansa nodded, furrowing her brow at his lack of inclusion in that scenario. "But it is also not entirely out of the question that my father gets tired of waiting for Jaime to give up his Kingsguard duty and take a wife and you end up at Casterly Rock." She nodded. Truthfully, neither option, when painted in such grim colors, seemed particularly appealing, but the insinuation that they'd be away from King's Landing was a happy thought for Sansa and she gave a relaxed smile. "Before you get your hopes up for either of these scenarios, slim in and of themselves, you do understand that I would have to remain here until relieved of my duty as Master of Coin which, under current circumstances, would likely not be a pleasant end."

"You can't think like that," she insisted, leaning toward him, and taking his hand in hers. "And I will not leave your side. I will not have my husband halfway across the continent." She kissed him firmly, almost defiantly. "No, if you're here, here is where I am as well."

Tyrion sighed. Her declaration filled him with such joy, the idea that she would choose to stay in King's Landing by his side to the exclusion of her own escape. Still, it was likely unavoidable. "Except that, unfortunately, that is the life of Lordship, is it not?"

Sansa remained resolute that between the two of them, they'd find a way. She was convinced that he was that he may be the cleverest man alive, with all of his books and wit, and she wasn't exactly empty-headed, even though she was a slow learner, she certainly learned. The pair of them together could certainly figure it out. "It is, I suppose, but there has to be a way. How likely is it that Lord Tywin would ever leave Casterly Rock in the care of a Stark, even if I suddenly were to resolve to show that I am Lannister through and through?" she mused, tugging at her skirt's crimson demonstratively.

"Not," he surmised after a moment. He eyed her curiously.

"Exactly. He might insist that you have me locked away and studied for that," she laughed darkly, but Tyrion didn't see the humor. That did, indeed, sound like a very Tywin Lannister answer. "He'd insist that you be there to do it, at least until our son is old enough." She raised her brow slightly, and Tyrion blushed a little. "But maybe I give you a flock of daughters first. That would certainly buy us some time."

"Sansa, you can't want that," he said sadly.

"Why not? Girls I could teach to sew and write and never be afraid to stand up for themselves and you could read with and dote on and show how a man is supposed to act." Sansa sidled against Tyrion and took his hand once more, looking at him and seeing all of the things she'd come to value so much in him. "And boys we could raise to be proud and strong, but fair and gentle. They will all know duty and honor but never with undue pressure to be anyone but who they are." She smiled a little, thinking of her siblings and how their mother had always found ways for them to explore their own interests. "If our daughter wishes to be a squire, she shall. If our son longs to write songs, we shall listen as he does." She found herself surprised at how easily this life unfurled in front of her and how right it felt. She pressed a hand to his cheek, hoping that he would sense her meaning. Perhaps seeing how sure she was, she thought, would make him believe her. "And none of them will know the horrors either of us has seen. Our children will have two parents who love them fiercely and do right by them, first and foremost." She smiled, feeling her mood lift. It didn't much matter to Sansa where these hypothetical children would be raised, the more she allowed herself to play it over in her mind. "Think of it, Tyrion. A boy with your mind and my heart? The power of a lion and the bite of a wolf? Our son will be the prize of the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion watched her amble happily about this future, but he couldn't help himself but doubt it still. "You would have the imp father your children?" He shook his head and focused on his feet, watching them dangle off the edge of the bench.

Giving him an exasperated stare, she squeezed his hand gently. "Will you stop talking about my husband in such a manner?" He was still so grateful to have any time with her at all that the idea that she could care boggled his mind, especially when he returned his gaze to her and found her looking at him so fondly. "Yes, Tyrion, you. Who else would you imagine that I prefer?"

"Sansa, I mean it," he said, groaning a little, desperate for her to understand. He racked his brain for the words. "I'm a disgrace to my house."

"Do you hear your father's voice when you think such things?" she asked seriously. The insight startled him. "That's all I hear when you say them. I know that I cannot fix what he's done to you, but Tyrion, please know that you are so much more than you think." Her tone was sure, despite the pleas of her sentiment. "Look at how much you did in the pitifully brief amount of time you spent as hand. Once you sink your teeth into Master of Coin, you'll do so much good for the realm. How do you not see it?" she asked, as though she didn't know that he had twenty-eight years of internalizing his family's ire inside of him. "If I'm the only one in all of Westeros who will sing your praises, I'll do it until my throat is raw."

Tears welling in his eyes, he took a deep breath, then asked, "When did we switch roles in this conversation?" When Sansa shrugged, he brought their still coupled hands to his face, pressing a gentle kiss to hers, eyes focusing on her mouth as he did. "I believe I was meant to be comforting and assuring you."

She softened a bit, lessening the distance between them. "I think I'm making up for lost time."

Tyrion released his grip and moved to repeat the gesture, this time, on the lips where it so rightfully belonged. He kissed her deeply and didn't dare stop until she pulled back and stood, reaching for his hand once more, leading him back to their chambers. They took their dinner and made haste for their bed, both eager for their first good night's sleep in far too long.

They both slept comfortably through the night entwined safely in each other's arms. In the days that followed, they began to spend more time out of their quarters. Towards the week's end, a bazaar had set up camp on the Street of the Sisters. Having made arrangements for trusted escorts, the couple lounged on the settee, her head in his lap and her legs hung over the armrest. "Have we thought about what we're getting for the King and Queen as wedding gifts?" she asked.

Tyrion nodded. "The King, yes. I have already sent away for a particular book. One I think he should read. One every King should, probably." Sansa eyed him, wondering what sort of a book he thought Joffrey might bother to read, or if it was merely meant to relay a point that would likely go well over his head. "But I don't know Lady Margaery nearly as well as you do."

Mulling over whether or not to mention it to him or simply to procure it herself, she decided to go with their return to openness. "There's a skin cream I found particularly useful that one of my handmaidens had given me. It smelled lovely, like pineapples and coconuts mostly, but it had some other elements, blackwort, wolf's bane, bachelor's buttons, essence of knackweide..." she listed, trying to remember if there was anything else. "I think she might get a fair bit of use from it, unfortunately," she blushed.

He wasn't familiar with most of the ingredients but knew that blackwort could be highly toxic and caused certain health issues for ladies. "Sansa, is this something that would likely put you in harm's way?" he asked gently.

"No, actually," she laughed, realizing that it did sound like it might. "The King quite liked the smell. He said it reminded him of summer." Her eyes grew distant for a moment before resting her cheek against him. "It is also a lot of ingredients that would be grown near Highgarden, so it might remind her of home. And mixed in with other small luxuries, bath soak, perfume oil, that type of thing under the guise of making her more desirable to His Grace," she gave a knowing smile, appearing to Tyrion as though perhaps that's how it had been presented to her, "he would be none the wiser."

Unable to hide his concern any longer, he spoke again. "May I ask what the purpose is?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" she asked, a little sad. He nodded his answer, earning him a dramatic sigh from his wife. "To reduce pain and bruising and swelling..." Tyrion shifted uncomfortably, wrapping his arm around Sansa protectively. She slid her hand up his arm, busying her fingers at his sleeve. "The types of things that I no longer have to worry about but Margaery does. She's strong and smart and driven, but I fear that that may not be enough."

"What other sorts of things did your handmaidens procure for you?" He was trying to keep his tone light, but the questions had been playing at his mind for some time and, though he knew it wasn't his place to insert himself in parts of her life she'd rather not disclose, part of his drive as husband was to try to help her heal, if he could.

She stared at him for a moment, knowing exactly which type of items he was asking about. She didn't want to have the discussion he was trying to open yet but didn't want to avoid his answer entirely. "My handmaidens at that time were all previously employed by Lord Baelish. I believe you might be able to ascertain." She knew it was, perhaps, cruel to leave his easily frightened mind to its own devices, but she just wasn't ready yet.

"Did he ever hurt you, Sansa? More than I know about already, I mean," he prodded.

Sansa sighed, bolting upright and sitting at the far end of the settee from Tyrion. "Does it matter?" she whined.

Plainly, he offered a flat "Yes." When Sansa smarted at the response, he fumbled for the right words to convey what he meant. "Not in that way. It matters to me because you matter to me." Sansa rolled her eyes, and Tyrion moved closer, taking her hands in his. "Sansa, I love you and I mean to know what types of torture I should be preparing to inflict upon him." The girl gave a short snort of a laugh, allowing Tyrion to ease slightly. "You laugh, but I'm not sure that I jest. Sansa, just tell me: did he?"

She lifted her chin defiantly, raising her brow. "It's over and he can't hurt me now."

"Sansa..." he said, trying to sound somewhere between calming and encouraging, but knowing thoroughly well that it was more scared and sad.

"Tyrion. I'm fine," she insisted.

"He did, didn't he?"

They sat in silence for a moment. Sansa swallowed, trying to avoid the visceral panic that engulfed her when she allowed herself to think about everything Joffrey had done to her. "Do you just need me to say the words or are you going to make me relive it? Relive every time?" Suddenly realizing he may have pushed too far, Tyrion softened further. Sansa rolled her shoulders back and closed her eyes again. "Please, don't. Not when you already know the answer." When she opened her eyes, he was still looking at her, eyes so sad, pleading for a response. "Yes. Tyrion, I'm sure, in time I'll be able to tell you. But for right now, please, just let me do what I can to help Margaery in whatever ways I can." Just like that, his jaw set firm, drawing his mouth into a tight line, and his brow furrowed. His shoulders, which had been so sadly downturned, hunched forward, as though poised to attack. With just the slightest word, his entire demeanor changed and it chilled Sansa. "Are you angry?" she asked, suddenly concerned that she should never have said anything in the first place.

"Yes," he admitted, though the fact was plain to see.

She chewed her lip, worried. "With me?"

Tyrion faltered. He'd never have meant that. He'd been so sure she'd know that that it hadn't occurred to him to say it. "No, Sansa," he assured, breath caught in his words. "No. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't be angry at all if you'd gone to him or anyone else willingly. There would have been no harm in that," he said, clearly meaning to say that he wasn't a hypocrite. He slid nearer to her. "This is different. He took something from you that is no one's to take. And, I'm not just talking about the physical act. I'm talking about your trust and your ability to decide. There is a reason that rape gets men sent to the Wall, Sansa. It's deplorable and dehumanizing. It takes a very specific breed of degradation to do that to a person." Sansa jerked at his use of the word. Obviously, she didn't need to be told all of that. She'd lived it. But she'd never expected anyone, let alone a man, to say all of that. Still, he continued, getting off the settee to pace. "Yes, Sansa, I'm angry. I'm angry that it happened to you." He stared at his feet, watching the disruption his boots made in the small red and gold rug. "I'm angry that, presumably, I was in a position to stop it and didn't." He turned to Sansa but looked at a point much nearer to the ceiling than to her head. "Most of all, I'm angry that I never did make good on that threat."

Resting her head to the side, Sansa closed her eyes for a moment. "Take yourself out of the equation, Tyrion." Seeing his expression change into one of confusion, she continued. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known. You hadn't even met me yet." Tyrion seemed to deflate and stepped toward her, holding her hands delicately in his. She grasped them tightly, shaking them lightly to get him to look at her. "Promise me you won't start to handle me as though I'll shatter. I'm not made of porcelain."

"You're stronger than I could ever have imagined." He kissed her hands gently. Sansa smiled a little, finding it strange that, even after talking about Joffrey, she didn't want to pull away from Tyrion's touch. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. He tilted his head up gently, his green eyes flicking between her soft pink lips and bright blue eyes asking wordlessly for permission. She closed the distance herself, kissing him tenderly. He grabbed her waist and pulled her nearer to him.

Thoughts clouding both of their minds, neither heard the knock at the door or the subsequent intrusion of their escorts, among them, Sansa's handmaidens, 3 knights Tyrion had hand-picked for their discretion, or moreover their ability to mind their tongues at a price, and Bronn and Podrick.

"Are we still going to this market or not?" the sellsword groaned, propping himself against the doorjamb.

Tyrion groans, pulling away from his wife and helping her to her feet. "Yes, Bronn. If you hadn't taken so long to extract yourself from the brothel, we might have been there by now," he jabbed.

Folding his arms in a playful defense, he retorted "Brothels don't seem to have slowed you down any."

"Leave him be," Ser Podrick said, watching the pair dreamily. "She's his wife. It's only right."

"Let's go," Sansa sighed, grabbing her cloak from the rack by the door and draping it around her shoulders, then doing the same for her husband, taking his arm.

"Would you not encourage him?" she said in a stage whisper, referring to Bronn, laughing. He's going to corrupt dear Ser Podrick."

"I believe I may have been a party to that corruption," he said, patting his wife's arm fondly.

"Unfortunately, I believe that," she said, unlinking their arms and taking a quick step forward. "Ser Podrick, would you be so kind?" she asked, extending her arm, instead, to him.

"Of course, Milady," he obliged.

Sansa felt a strange kinship to the knight, both so devoted to Tyrion. Still, she couldn't help but note that he seemed so out of place in the lion's den. Despite his being a few years older than her, and now a knight no less, she felt the need to protect him. "I do apologize on behalf of my husband," she said, tone playful and not at all sincere as there was nothing to apologize for, "his rough ways can be shocking for those as civilized as we." Behind, Tyrion feigned insult before sharing a quiet joke with Bronn.

The bazaar was bright and colorful and filled with wares from all over the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. One of Sansa's handmaidens, a careful woman a few years older than Sansa with a thick Lorathi accent, went off in search of the salve Sansa wanted for Margaery, casting a suspicious glance between the married couple.

Sansa dismissed her mistrust with a gentle, wordless nod.

The rest of their party began browsing the tables, making all sorts of purchases. Sansa was able to assemble a beautiful parcel of luxuries for the insipient queen. Tyrion watched in awe as she bartered, her casual mention of the intended recipient dropping the price tag on an exorbitantly priced measure of a warmly scented perfume oil by half and getting a sample vial for Sansa of a new mixture tailor-made for her with lemon and lavender that she promised to send for a full-sized bottle of if it smelled as lovely on her skin as it did on paper. She was the picture of grace and shrewdness and Tyrion was of half a mind to offer her the position as master of coin. Surely, the girl had more than enough wit for it. He'd once thought to himself that she would survive the Lannisters. He was coming to realize that Sansa might have been born to be Queen. At the very least, she was his queen.

They stopped at a stall belonging to one of the newest shoppes on the Street of Flour and nearly bought the young lady out. Sansa made sure to get the woman's name and location as she would surely be sending for her wares again. She nibbled at a hand pie filled cured meat, cheese, and olives, feeding bites to Tyrion as they walked arm in arm.

Sansa felt nearly giddy at the change of pace. It was all so normal. She had never imagined that these types of outings were among the things she'd miss most about being away from King's Landing. She thought of how she, Arya, Jon, Theon, and Robb would go into Winter Town and spend the whole day bartering pelts and coin for items their household needed, but more enjoying being together. She and Arya, after they were twelve or so, had always wanted to go alone, but the boys insisted, claiming the woods were no place for little girls alone and that they'd be lucky not to be gobbled up by some direwolf. Deep down, though, Sansa always knew it was more that they didn't want to be left out. The boys would watch the local girls, making dirty jokes- entirely unbecoming of the future Lord of Winterfell, she'd always chide, getting a gentle reminder that Jon wouldn't be there if the current Lord didn't share in such fancies and not to sound so much like their mother all the time. A pang of sadness gripped at her heart. She was the only one left. No one knew what became of Arya, presuming her dead. She'd had no news of Theon or the little ones. Jon was at the wall and presumably safe, but she'd never get to see him again. Father. Mother and Robb. They were all gone now. She felt guilty for finding herself so happy after such a short time. It was all so easy, then. No armed guards, no need to win people over, just a life. That's not to say that she wasn't looking forward to what life in the Red Keep would hold for her as a wife, but it was so different from what she had truly expected, even when she'd thought she would be queen.

The hours passed and day crept into evening. As their group headed back for the Keep, they joked happily. Even their guards joked about with them. As they reached their room, they bid their companions good night and retired. Once he was ready for sleep, Tyrion climbed into bed, calling for Sansa to do the same.

She walked to the bed and considered the whole situation for a moment before sliding under the coverlet beside him, searching the expanse of the mattress for his familiar touch. She rested her head against his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss to his jaw. Her mouth seemed to search for words she couldn't find.

As he began to doze off, fingers stroking her hair softly, Tyrion whispered "I love you," gentle, unprompted, and real.

It filled Sansa with such a specific and indescribable joy to hear him say it so freely and her impulse to return it was so strong that she couldn't deny it. She loved him. Sleep came to claim her shortly, but the feeling didn't disappear in her dreams or when she woke the following morning.

Watching as he slept, Sansa began to speak softly to Tyrion. "I love waking up before you. I love waking up next to you." She watched as her fingers trailed through the bed of coarse blond curls on his chest. "I love feeling your body, warm against mine. I love the sound of your heartbeat. I love the way all trace of worry dissolves from your face in moments like these." He groaned a little, shifting his weight towards Sansa. "I love the soft noises you make as you dream. I love how heavily you sleep so I know I can say all of this without disturbing you. I love your arm around my shoulder even though I know you can't feel your fingers when you finally wake." She rattled through all of the surface deep things she could think of at the moment, then added. "I love being married to you. And I think I might love you, but I can't..." she sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "I can't say it yet. Every time I try, you push me away. I don't know what love feels like Tyrion, but if this isn't it, I don't think I want it." She leaned across him, addressing him as though he were awake. I love this. I love what we have. I love the quiet. I love the honesty. I love you." She laughed a little, realizing that she'd said it. She'd actually said it. Her heart pounded happily with adrenaline. "I do. I'll be able to say it to you soon, I swear it." She couldn't bear it anymore. She needed him to be awake for the day. Sansa leaned down, kissing him softly but with a more specific force, trying to rouse him. She pulled back, watching him begin to stir, then repeated the motion again, feeling him begin to kiss back.

"Good morning," he said, voice low and gruff with sleep, but certainly impressed with her wake up call. "What was that for?"

"For being my husband," she said, smiling when he finally opened his eyes.

That was certainly a reason he could agree with. He leaned up, kissing her for himself. "For being my wife," he added.

As the day went on, and Sansa had hound herself well and truly bored of her needlework, she found herself focusing instead on her husband and the realization she'd made the previous night. She couldn't tear her thoughts away from how clear it all seemed now. Of course, what she'd been feeling was love. What else could it have been? She rose from the table and crossed to where he sat reading.

"I had a thought," she said, hovering over him and obstructing his view of his book. "Neither of us are drinking. Neither of us are angry. There are no pressures at the moment." Her voice was strong and low, belying her intentions to Tyrion effortlessly. He raised an eyebrow, toying with her. "Can we try making love again?"

He laughed a little. It wasn't harsh or mocking, just surprised at her word choice. "Is that what that was?" he asked.

Sansa moved to kiss and suck at his neck. "Tyrion..." she whined, leading her kisses up to his face.

"Right now?" He asked, teasing as he lolled his head back, enjoying her mouth more than he could say. He gestured to the book on his lap. "I mean, I am so terribly busy right now..."

"Right now," she said, knocking the tome to the floor with a thud, situating herself in its place, "and then maybe later tonight," she cooed, unfastening his vest and sliding it off of him, moving then to slide off his tunic. "And maybe over and over again." She punctuated her words with kisses down his chest before he sat up to meet her.

Heart racing, he rested his hands on her bottom, pressing her to him. "Are you sure?"

Sansa nodded her reply, bringing her mouth crashing to his. She spared no time bringing his hands around to her back to undo the lacing on her dress. With practiced fingers, Tyrion made short work of the dress and lifted it off over her head, draping it over the back of the settee. Sansa untied her underskirt as well, flinging it to the side.

Dragging his fingers down the valley between her breasts, Tyrion brought his hands to rest on her hips, guiding her onto her back. He reached the floor, and chewed at his thumbnail, plotting how best to pleasure her.

"Isn't there someplace better for that mouth?" Sansa asked, watching him hungrily.

A laugh escaped Tyrion's lips. He kissed her with fervor, eliciting a glorious whine that sent his blood coursing directly for his core. He moved to nip at her ear gently before offering a low "Better?"

His voice resonated with Sansa in ways she had never expected, though probably should have. She'd always found his voice attractive, low and calming. This was different. It made every hair on her body stand on end. As he began to suck down her neck to her breasts, she arched her back, offering herself to him. He paused for a moment, taking his mouth to her nipple, leaving it wet and blew across it. Sansa shivered at the sensation. Her hands found his hair and she twisted her fingers into the blond mop of curls.

Hissing in pleasured surprise, Tyrion began to move further down. He trailed sloppy, wet kisses down her stomach to her thighs. Moving her legs further apart, he ran a finger between her delicate folds. He lowered his mouth to her sex and began allowing his tongue to encircle the bundle of nerves near to the top.

Sansa felt tension building all over her. Her toes began to curl under as she writhed with his rhythm. Feeling his tongue dance around her, she began to work out what she needed. "Harder," she panted, lacing her fingers into her own hair.

Alternating between licking and sucking, Tyrion felt himself begin to throb as Sansa began to release the faintest pleasured moans. Sliding one finger inside her, he began to rub gently, gathering speed. He added a second, feeling her grow more ready for him.

Sansa reached forward, plucking at the waistband of his pants. "These have got to go," she urged. "I need you, now."

"As you wish," he said, dropping the offending fabric to the floor and taking his length in his own hand. Tyrion climbed onto the settee, resting himself between her legs. He brought his hard length to her, carefully at first, then once he was sure she was alright, he began to thrust harder. His hands worked their way back to her breast, cupping it rubbing his thumb tantalizingly across the fullest part before lowering his mouth to her neck.

One hand snaked around his shoulder, her long fingernails digging into his flesh, the other entwined in his hair, Sansa body began to move in time with Tyrion's, impulses taking over as her cries became more broken. Her chin rested on his shoulder, mouth open slack. She pressed herself against him, hips bucking with his every move.

Tyrion began to feel a familiar pulse around his cock and knew she was close. He brought his mouth down to hers and began thrusting harder and harder. "Let go, Sansa," he said, breath hot against her mouth. "I want to see you first." He sucked hard on her lower lip and she gasped.

Hearing him speak such things to her drove her wild, over the edge into her orgasm. When Tyrion began to rub again at the spot at the top of her sex, she felt her pressure build again, long enough for them to finally reach their own ends together. He rested himself atop her for a moment, catching his breath as their heartbeats began to calm.

Feeling warm and flush all over, Sansa longed to keep him right where he was. She rolled onto her side and moved down so their faces were nearly pressed together. She wrapped one leg over his as she kissed him deeply, laughing a little at the rush.

Unable to keep his hands off her, Tyrion rested them at her waist. "You know," he said, voice shaky from exertion, "if you keep that up, we're going to have to do that again very, very soon.

A wicked smile played at her lips. "Is that a promise?"

They spent the days to come largely wrapped in each other, exploring each other's bodies over and over again in as many ways as they could. It reached a point, by the third time her handmaidens walked in on them well in the thick of their discoveries, they began to keep their heads turned to the floor if they meant to enter after an unanswered knock. It would have worked better, of course, if the next time her Lorathi handmaiden came in, they'd made it farther than the floor, right in front of the door. "Don't you two have something better to do?" the girl had fumed.

"Can't think of anything at the moment," Tyrion had managed as Sansa's mouth was otherwise occupied.

That was the day he learned not to make his wife laugh in certain positions, remembering acutely that wolves are known for their teeth. The handmaiden left, cackling, as Sansa sent her to fetch some scrapings from the ice house, apologizing over and over again.

Time flew by, and they found a rhythm, a lightness, and Tyrion began to finally feel that Sansa was, perhaps, as comfortable with him as she said. He'd spent so long so scared of her rejection that he'd never prepared to accept her love. The only affection he'd ever known that hadn't been bought or had been Jaime and that was certainly not the same thing. He wasn't Cersei, after all. Nevertheless, he found it easier to allow himself to believe it with each passing moment.

On the first day of the final week of their honeymoon, Tyrion and Sansa found themselves at the head table for the breakfast kicking off the Wedding festivities for the nuptials of King Joffrey and Lady Margaery. Luckily for them, they were seated near the end, far away from the Lannisters. Tyrion lamented, for a moment, that his brother wasn't there and passed some soft, traitorous thoughts that he daren't mention even to Sansa, knowing that similar allusions had led to her father's execution. Still, it didn't seem fair that Jaime would miss the wedding of his son. Thankfully, they both quite enjoyed Lady Olenna Tyrell, Margaery's grandmother's quips about the guests and the decorations and the food. She seemed rather annoyed by the whole affair to quite an entertaining level of acerbic wit.

Joffrey and Margaery strode to the center of the hall, opening their gifts. When the King opened the book from Tyrion, he prompted an explanation, just as Tyrion had expected and prepared for. Tyrion turned it into a thinly veiled lesson, brimming with threats, implications, and perhaps the slightest hint of provocation, but having flicked through the text herself, Sansa certainly agreed with his sentiment. The whole matter seemed to unsettle the King. He unsheathed Widow's Wail. In one heavy blow, the book was cleaved in two. Tyrion nodded, a knowing smile on his face, having predicted such a reaction as well.

The bride-to-be, however, didn't have such warning. Margaery flinched almost imperceptibly and Sansa's heart broke. She'd only been in King's Landing a short while. Sansa could hardly tell whether it was her even demeanor beginning to break or if it was her skin growing thicker. Either way, she couldn't help feeling she'd failed her friend in not preparing her better. She cursed him under her breath for his continued existence.

"The boy does love celebrating himself, doesn't he?" Tyrion noted flatly, taking a sip of his wine.

Sansa laughed, nodding. "I once heard a song about a knight who caused all of his lovers to kill themselves to show their devotions. The Gods, so distraught by the man's self-importance came up with a devious plan." She took Tyrion's hand and leaned into him conspiratorily, her own goblet still in the other. "One day, he was riding by a lake, so shimmering in the sun, that he decided to come upon it for a drink." She brought the cup to her lips, acting out her story for the ears of no one but her husband. She suddenly looked down at the liquid it held. "He caught a glimpse of his reflection, so clear and true that he thought to himself, this is what devotion looks like. This is why no one can touch me. The Gods have created a me all for myself." Running her thumb over his gently, she focused then on him. "He became so enamored by himself, so entranced, that he lowered himself to kiss. He kept going as far as he could because he couldn't reach his own rose-petal lips." Finally, she took a deep sip of the wine, bolstering her bravery to kiss her husband in front of a whole party full of people. She put the cup on the table in front of her and kissed him, gently resting her hand on his cheek. "When he reached the bottom, not finding himself, he gave up trying for he would never find a love so true as the love he held for himself." She squinted a little, shifting her eyes to the King, gleefully taking practice shots with his new crossbow at the court fool.

"Do we know the location of this lake?" Tyrion asked, a wicked smile playing at his eyes. "I can procure a horse..." he joked.

"It seems like this whole affair is going to be rather trying," she sighed, trying desperately not to notice anything but her husband. "The only way we're getting through this is together."

Tyrion brought her face nearer to him, kissing her in the vain hopes of drowning out Joffrey's shouts. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Next to Tyrion, the Tyrell matriarch smiled to herself, enjoying the tender display between the newlyweds. "It does my wicked old heart good to see that there is still hope for a kind young lady after she escapes the grasp of a wicked man," she said, turning to the pair with a nod. "Soulmate or no, some people aren't as lucky," she said, casting a grin at them.


	12. Chapter 10

The Royal Wedding was, indeed, one for the books. The thought of the expenses Tyrion would have to excuse upon his return was truly baffling, but that was a thought he could set aside until the next day.

Tyrion and Sansa stood at the front of the congregation for the ceremony behind the rest of the Groom's family. They'd decided that no matter what happened that day, they were not letting go of one another. She stood with her arm linked through his, calm as she could manage.

As the bride made her way down the center aisle, Sansa watched her friend. Margaery showed not the slightest trace of trepidation, every bit the Queen. When she passed her, a certain sadness washed over her with the faintest scent of pineapple and coconut. Sansa gripped Tyrion's hand tighter.

He gazed up at her momentarily, hoping what she was thinking wasn't regret. When she smiled at him and stepped a little closer, that fear waned. Still, he couldn't stop wondering what had her so unsettled.

The couple performed the marriage rites. The crowd watched in awe of the couple, as the King seemed so proud to be marrying and Lady Margaery looked totally at ease. Sansa knew it was an act, but even she was impressed. "Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul," the High Septon's voice boomed. Lannister and Baratheon. As if anyone involved believed that. Tyrion pressed Sansa's hand to his lips, thinking how grateful he was that he wasn't watching her be tied to his beast of a nephew. "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

"With this kiss, I pledge my love." The King grabbed his Queen tightly, in a kiss no one observing could have called anything but unpleasant. Still, Margaery's air of blissful ignorance was charming. She certainly played the part well. As the crowd cheered, many of the couples shared a small kiss. Sansa leaned down and followed suit, a tender moment not unnoticed by Lady Olenna, across the aisle. She smiled approvingly.

"We have a new queen," Sansa said flatly as they separated.

Tyrion held her gaze, squeezing her hand tightly. "Better her than you," he whispered.

When all was said and done and they made their way back to the Red Keep for the feast, Sansa had already decided that she wanted no further part in the day. One sight of the large golden lion with a hinged jaw across from the high table and the large platform in the middle dropped a pit into her stomach. The whole thing reeked of foreboding. Her entire body was screaming for her to grab Tyrion by the hand and run. She shook it off as leftover nerves from how long this event had loomed over her head and consoled herself in the fact that it was likely that they'd be able to make a break for it as soon as the festivities kicked into high gear. Even still, she was grateful that Tyrion had insisted that Bronn and Pod stay nearby

Before the festivities started, the couple found themselves cornered by Lord Tywin. Sansa's breath caught in her throat and her belly did a nervous flip. Tyrion took her hand and steeled his gaze on his father. "Do you have news for me?"

"Yes, actually," Tyrion said. Tywin raised his brows expectantly and cast a glance to Sansa. "It would seem that your grandson..." Sansa's eyes grew wide as saucers. Tywin's mouth curled up at the edges. Tyrion's expression remained unchanged, calculated, "is getting married today. Congratulations," he concluded, bowing his head.

The hand of the King's expression fell into his normal glower. "You know that that's not the grandson I'm interested in. Cersei has done her duty time and time again." He fixed his stare on Sansa. Her husband stepped closer to her, protectively. "Are you barren, girl? Or is one of your little harlot handmaidens still trying to preserve your youth?"

Sansa flicked her eyes to him and shrugged, shifting her weight on the balls of her feet, then stared at the ground. She worried for a moment about Shae, but decided that it wasn't particularly important at the moment. "My traitor mother was very quick to take, My Lord. Not enough time has passed to be sure this time, but if the Gods are willing." Not kind. She knew well his teachings on that.

Guilt flashed over his face. He had almost allowed himself to forget that that was an expectation of them. Their most recent activities and the frequency therein certainly could have... no. No, Sansa would have told him. Still, he cursed himself for not bringing it up with her at any point before. "Let the King have his day. Today should be all about the joy of the bride and groom." Tyrion voiced, daring him to argue that. "Sansa and I had our moment."

"You would do well to remember that kindness and do your duty," he advised, voice tinged with threats.

Tyrion smiled at that. "Believe me, there's not much more we can do." Of that much he was certain. Out of the corner of his eye, he would have sworn he saw Sansa give a shy smile, too.

Carefully surveying them, he groaned deliberately, "Indeed. Enjoy the day, then. I've heard the entertainment should be of a particularly high class. I'll expect you bright and early tomorrow."

"Sansa, I'm sorry," Tyrion whispered, watching his father move on to his next victim to torment.

"For what now?" she asked, turning to him with a sigh, expecting to be met with any number of horrible possibilities.

Gesturing vaguely toward the direction in his father headed, unable to face her, he simply stated a defeated "Him."

With a sigh and a roll of her stunning blue eyes. "You can't help him," she said. Noticing a certain sadness that she knew was accompanied by his darker thoughts about himself, she circled to stand before him and tilted his chin up to meet her gaze. "And you won't be him, before you even think it."

He considered her for a moment, reading implications of her words she hadn't meant. "Could you be?" His pulse rushed as the possibility dawned on him.

"Truthfully, I hadn't thought about it," she said evenly. She'd been too busy enjoying their time together to consider it. "I suppose I could. I think we've certainly put forth a valiant effort." She gave an intentionally seductive smile that made Tyrion weak in the knees. She was learning, quickly, the ways to get a rise out of her Lord Husband in more ways than one. Sansa never would have expected herself to be the type for public flirtation, but she often found herself unable to help it. Sometimes, it was the only way to release Tyrion from his melancholy and if that was all it took, she'd certainly make a go of it.

Twisting his fingers in the outermost layers of her skirts, he shook his head, still bewildered by her presence. "And I look forward to the next noble attempt, my wife." His voice was thick and teasing and it brought an immediate flush to his wife's cheeks that spread into her chest.

Sansa leaned forward and kissed him deeply before leaning in close to his ear, cheek pressed gently to his. "Do you think we might go unnoticed for a while?" she cooed suggestively.

"Not likely," he answered, placing his hands on her waist and breathing in her perfumed scent. He definitely would have to send off for that full bottle for her immediately, "but I certainly share your enthusiasm." He stepped back, taking in the sight of her. "Have I mentioned today how beautiful you are?"

Glancing at the ground, Sansa smiled, blush deepening. "You're too kind."

"You're too modest," he corrected, taking her arm and leading her into the tent where the high table was set. "You are the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond."

"Doubtful. I'm modest?" she laughed with a playfully pointed stare at him. "If I were to say something even remotely similar, you'd call me a liar and hide from me for days."

Tyrion pulled out her chair, bowing his head with an embarrassed chuckle. "Are we still on that?" He took his place beside her, carefully placing himself and Prince Tommen as a buffer between Sansa and the rest of his family. "Fine. Try me," he said daringly with a flirtatious wink, propping his chin in his hand. "I promise I won't budge."

Sucking her lower lip in between her lips as she thought, Sansa leaned in, mirroring his posture. She brought her palm to rest gently against his cheek. "You are the most handsome, most charming man I have ever laid eyes on." She smiled and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to his lips. "I may not be the most beautiful woman in the seven Kingdoms, but I'm certainly the luckiest."

It was as though she'd sucked all the air from the room. Tyrion's heart raced. He was in no position to argue, so he just shook his head a little. "Well played," he admitted mellifluously.

With a self-satisfied smile, Sansa settled into her chair, glad that the majority of the guests hadn't made their way to the garden setup yet, allowing them a few more moments of relative privacy to get their bearings.

The earliest parts of the event were reasonably painless. It was easy enough to focus solely on the musicians and watching the guests dance. The food was, of course, the finest Sansa'd ever eaten. Even Tyrion remarked how the cooks had outdone themselves.

Visiting Lords and Ladies stopped by the high table to chat with Tyrion and Sansa. The Martells were Sansa's favorite by far. Prince Oberyn's paramour, Ellaria, had made an offhand comment about love matches being so rare among Westerosi highborns that many of the nobles of Dorne had been quite taken by their story.

Sansa's cheeks colored at the thought of being a topic of gossip in far-off Kingdoms. Diplomatically, she flipped the conversation back to the guests. "Does it seem as though Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane will be a love match?"

Prince Oberyn beamed. "Yes. The turn of the moon before we received the response from your Lord Husband saw my Trystane's twenty-first nameday and, as it turns out, Princess Myrcella is his soulmate. We didn't force a greeting upon them, so my son was left to his own devices and, ever the charming boy, he stammered for a moment. Your niece didn't miss a step. 'I see I've rendered you speechless, Prince Trystane,' she said. You could have knocked the boy over with your little finger. He rolled up his sleeve and revealed those very words before running from the room. The princess let out a joyous laugh before turning to me and saying that he'd better come up with something remarkable upon his return." The four shared a laugh. Tyrion nodded sympathetically, rubbing Sansa's hand fondly. "It would seem that Myrcella's marking will either be a string of indefinable noises or 'Forgive me, that was improper' should their marks be mutual." Sansa laughed, knowing that hers if all went as she expected, would be an apology as well. "Your husband seems to have quite a gift for these things.

"He does at that," she confirmed, "And he tells me that, when faced with her options, Myrcella chose Trystane without hesitation. I'm sure that bodes well for them when the time comes."

Ellaria gave a pleasant chuckle. "Indeed, My Lady. But what of yourself?" she asked, curiously. "I hear we have some time before we get confirmation from you. Do you believe your husband's first words will appear somewhere on your pretty pale flesh?"

Unwaveringly, Sansa nodded. "With every day, I grow more certain of that." There was no trace of placation or fealty as there had been every time she'd been asked something similar about Joffrey. Further proof of her statement, she supposed.

Tyrion smiled, kissing Sansa's hand proudly. He was truly amazed at her aptitude for small talk. He thanked the Seven again for bringing her to him.

Before Tyrion could interject his thoughts on the matter, a seemingly irritated Joffrey rose from his seat, staring at the four of them as though their mere presence was offensive. "My Lords. My Ladies. There has been too much amusement today. Too much revelry," he sneered, calling the guests back to their seats with a flick of his wrist. There was something suspicious about his tone and it sent a chill up Sansa's spine. She leaned as far toward Tyrion as her chair would allow, placing her hand atop his. "This is a royal wedding. A royal wedding is history. The time has come for us to contemplate our history. The War of the Five Kings!" he cheered. Sansa and Tyrion exchanged a worried look as a group of men pulled levers to open the Lion's mouth. As soon as the troupe appeared on the tongue, Sansa's heart fell into her stomach. "King Joffrey," he announced, and a dwarf, dressed in garb very similar to his own strode out onto the round dais, a great golden lion of sorts fashioned around his waist. She glanced at Tyrion out of the corner of her eye. His jaw was set hard and his eyes seemed to look right through the crowd. She turned further, glaring at Joffrey. "Renly. Stannis. Robb. Balon," he called, addressing each of the actors as they appeared. The Renly and Stannis appeared not to ride an animal at all, instead sported crude approximations of Loras, his bare bottom exposed, and The Rumored Red Witch around their waists. She felt her meal lurch in her belly as the one portraying Robb galloped out with a direwolf head mask around his head. Presumably, the one Joffrey cared least about mocking, Balon, rode a Kraken. She almost hadn't noticed him. Had he died? She gnashed her teeth, remembering that, when last she'd heard, Winterfell had been burned in his name and her brothers along with it by Theon of all people.

The glee with which the King looked between Sansa, Tyrion, Margaery, and Loras left no room for interpretation. This was a punishment for them. The high table was full of mixed emotions. Cersei and Tywin seemed pleased with the antics. Prince Tommen wanted to enjoy it, under the impression that what painted Joffrey as the victor painted the whole family well, but he couldn't shake the distinct amount of discomfort it left him. Lady Olenna and Lord Mace Tyrell seemed disturbed, but not shocked. Ser Loras was furious. He looked to Margaery in the vain hopes that she would object. When she didn't, seeming to swallow her emotions, despite the tears threatening her vision, he clenched his fist around his sword, stayed by his grandmother beside him. Tyrion sat stoic, years of such torments leaving him rather unphased. Still, there was a new fire within him. If it had just been a tale of the Lannisters or of the Blackwater told by dwarf mummers, he'd have been humiliated but unsurprised. As he glanced to his left, the abject horror on Sansa's face fanned his fury. Sansa tried not to let her emotions get the better of her. They hadn't even begun whatever farce of a reenactment they were planning and she couldn't afford to let Joffrey see how affected she was already.

Casting a wicked smile at the victims of his fun, Joffrey called to the crowd, "Let the war begin!"

The first battle to occur was forged between the King's supposed uncles. Flying from across the floor, Stannis takes his jousting pole and shoves it at the ass of Renly. His battle cry was lewd and insulting.

Sansa looked sympathetically to Margaery who would never have noticed, being too focused on the horrible scene before her.. Her fingers curled around the arms of her chair turning her knuckles ghost white.

Loras looked to his Father and Grandmother, who seemed unmoved by his protests. He stood up in tears, storming from the dais.

Cersei gave a callous smile to the new Queen and laughed as her tears began to fall, nodding to her son to call attention to his wife's display.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly, he took in the sight of her. "I don't know which part I like more," Joffrey sneered, leaning over to his new wife, taking a large gulp of his wine, "this one or the end. This one should certainly be your favorite, My Lady," he said, digging his bony, angled fingers into the back of her neck, forcing her to watch as the actor threw scraps of red fabric in the air, whimpering his overdramatic death.

Up next was the battle between Robb and Balon. Sansa gritted her teeth as they had an exaggerated sword fight. Her breath hitched in her chest every time a blow was landed. Even though she knew how the scene would play out, she didn't expect the scathing remarks about her family for their so-called torture and emasculation of Theon. She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes for a moment.

The corners of Lord Tywin's mouth curled up into a devilish delight. He glanced at his son and daughter-in-law's discomfort. "Good," he thought, "Let him feel a modicum of the humiliation he brings me every moment he breathes." He leaned in to share a joke with his daughter at Sansa's expense. Tommen shifted uncomfortably in his seat next to his Grandfather, overhearing their exchange.

The would-be Robb tore the Kraken from around his waist as he crumpled to the ground, sucking his thumb and crying for mercy and his mother, bringing their vignette to a close.

The man playing Joffrey gave a sudden roar from the other side, lurching at Stannis' stand-in. Tyrion shifted toward Sansa instinctively, growing woefully uncomfortable with the reaction of the crowd. He could hear the disparaging remarks about the actors. Sansa brought her hand to rest on his leg, giving it a squeeze. He looked up and she nodded at him, prompting him to remember her statement earlier in the week about getting through this together.

From a table near to them, one of the guests flung a heap of mash at the actor playing Stannis, jeering about the man's gait. Across the table sat a visibly annoyed Varys who had been watching the high table more than the players. He nodded solemnly at Tyrion who returned the gesture.

Tyrion beckoned Pod forward. The boy leaned in, obliging. "Pay each of them 20 Gold when this is done," he said.

"Yes, milord," he answered with a somber nod.

Under his breath, Tyrion added, "We'll have to find another way to thank the king." He bade the boy to take his leave to fetch the necessary coin.

Their battle came to a close as Joffrey cheered about his stores of wildfire leftover from the mad King. He feigned striking a flint and called "Where's your God of Light now?" Dramatically, Stannis bounded backward making spluttering noises, crying out about his nephew's unfair treatment.

As the remaining two players squared off on either side of the stage, the entire high table began to shift. Margaery glanced apologetically at Sansa, earning herself a whispered threat from her new husband. The elder Tyrells seethed at the interaction. Mace seemed terrified to react at all. Olenna's clenched teeth and shake of her head would have been more than enough to dissuade most other men.

But Joffrey wasn't most men. Joffrey was a pampered King. He believed he could do no wrong and, even if he believed it to be wrong, who would dare challenge him?  
The actors charged toward one another, each yelling heatedly. As the man playing Joffrey's supposed part brought echoes of the whole matter to Sansa's mind. She tried to ignore the repetition of all the words she'd heard flung at her so often since her father's death, but when the actor screamed "The Lannisters send their regards," her mind swirled. There was only one thing that could mean. Her pulse rushed. She fought to keep herself from fainting.

Tyrion rested his hand atop where hers was digging into his thigh. He glowered at his father and sister, who merely shrugged and smiled as though this was a prank between children.

From his place at the center of the table, Joffrey stood and cheered, egging the performers on with particularly hurtful jibes.

Offering Sansa a sympathetic nod, Tyrion tried to calm her by rubbing his hand over hers. He knew it was useless but, as always, he had to try. He felt overwhelmingly guilty for the whole matter. Despite having no idea that it was going to happen, he wondered if she wouldn't have had to endure this kind of humiliation if he had never said anything at all. He tried to dismiss the thought, reasoning that no matter what happened here, she was safe. When this was all over, they'd return to their rooms and he'd be able to hold her and make sure that she knew that none of this was in any way, shape, or form warranted, valid, or her fault. When the would-be Joffrey charged against Robb for the final time, knocking him over and bludgeoning him with his replica of Widow's Wail. He cried out vivid details of the Red Wedding, finishing his monologue with a snape at Sansa's nature, insinuating that they were involved in a relationship similar to the rumors about the Lannister twins.

The room erupted into cheers and laughter as Robb spluttered and died. The actor playing Joffrey wrenched the direwolf from his head and began thrusting himself into in, howling and laughing.

Unable to hold back any longer, hot, angry tears began to stream down Sansa's face. She hadn't realized when the performance started how much it was truly going to affect her. She was actually forced to watch Robb die. And, moreover, she couldn't help but see Tyrion in all of the deaths. She yanked her hand away from Tyrion, mortified and not wanting to drag him into the ensuing uproar. She could hear the comments from the nearest tables about her relationship with Robb and making lewd insinuations about how she must treat her husband. Aching for the pain he must be feeling, in a sobering distraction from her own freshly restricken grief, she hung her head in defeat.

Paying no heed to the crowd, Tyrion momentarily wondered if she was seeing him in the portrayal of Joffrey, but again, he banished the thought. She'd been right. Realizing that the hateful voice in his head belonged to his father made it easier to chase them away. He found her hand once more, grasping it firmly, unwilling to let her think for a moment she was alone in this torture.

Margaery covered her mouth with her hand, thoroughly horrified by the display. She thought she'd known what she was getting into. She thought his horrors were saved only for his private life. If this was the type of thing he thought was entertaining for a party, she could hardly stand to imagine what type of king he would be. Noticing her granddaughter's dismay, Lady Olenna took a deep breath and caught her eye, giving her a look meant to tell her to carry on.

Circling to the front of the table, Joffrey cheered, swinging a bag of gold around his finger dramatically. "Well fought, well fought! Here you are! A champion's purse!" He stopped, dangling the bag in front of the man before retracting it. "But, surely the battles aren't over. You're not a champion until you've won every challenge." He bounced on his heels and turned to Tyrion. "Wouldn't you like to join your brethren, Uncle. Come, I'm sure they've got a spare costume."

With a disgruntled look to Sansa, he pushed back his chair and stood to face his nephew. "Oh, no, Your Grace. I don't have your skill in such matters. One taste of battle was more than enough for me," he said, squinting his eyes, daring the King to press him at that moment. He laughed, resting a hand on his wife's shoulder, noticing her grip on the back of his doublet. "I do believe your Aunt Sansa may prefer to leave what is left of me intact." Gesturing to the stage with a nod, he continued, "This was only a meager imitation of your own strength in battle. Perhaps, instead, the people might enjoy a repeat performance of your heroism during the siege on the city." He clenched his teeth, hazarding an even more severe tone. "Although, I would suggest it wise that your Lady Wife avert her eyes. Such a tale might be quite scarring for her." He nodded back to the would-be Joffrey. "Especially versus this one. He is clearly mad with lust. It would truly be a tragedy for the King to lose his virtue just hours before his own wedding night in such a vile, brutal manner." His voice was heavy with accusations that did not go unnoticed by Joffrey. He returned to his seat, stare still fixed defiantly on the monarch.

He sauntered toward Tyrion and upended his goblet over his head, thoroughly drenching him.

Tyrion licked his lips. "A fine vintage. A shame it was wasted," he said, flicking it from his eyes.

The man beside Varys made an off-color remark about her womanhood that made Sansa prickle. She couldn't sit idly while Tyrion was being publicly ridiculed. Not now. Not ever again. "Not wasted," she said, a knowing smile crossing her lips. She grabbed her napkin and dabbed at his shoulder and down his arm. Locking eyes with Tyrion, she offered a low, "Allow me," sucking the wine from his fingers and flitting her gaze back to Joffrey. She brought her mouth from his hand with a wet pop before kissing his fingertips, then moving up to kiss him deeply, making a show of tugging on his lower lip with her teeth as they separated. The onlookers howled like dogs at the display. She'd certainly made a dent in the rumors.

Joffrey spluttered, searching for the next thing to say. He certainly wouldn't allow for such spite.

A slight blush tinged her little brother's cheeks at his wife's ministrations, and Cersei fumed at the sight. She wasn't used to her advice coming back to bite her, and certainly not from the little dove her son had tried so hard to break.

Realizing how far her facade had slipped, the new Queen roused herself back to reality. Trying to diffuse the tension, Margaery called, "My Love, come back to me. I believe we were about to be toasted." She gave a small gesture for her father to stand and help. He obliged, moving to stand but was cut off.

"How am I expected to toast without wine?" Joffrey asked, his next plan forming as he spoke. "Since you won't play along, Uncle, why not be my cupbearer?"

Immediately tensing, Sansa grasped his thigh, hoping to keep him in his chair, a strong "No" escaping through her clenched teeth.

Tyrion took a deep breath to steady himself, choking down every word he wanted to stream at him. "A fine honor."

"You would see it that way," he sniggered. He held his goblet out to Tyrion as he walked toward him. When he got close enough to reach it, he let it slip from his fingers and kicked it under the table.

Lifting the tablecloth where it had disappeared, Tyrion could see no sign of the cup. It had rolled all the way to the end and Sansa was holding it out to him. He nodded, a silent Thank You for not making him crawl under the table as had clearly been the intention.

Joffrey nearly growled, growing more and more malcontented by their unwillingness to give him his way. "Fill it," he commanded.

Silently, he turned to do so. He took the decanter from before Cersei and drained it into the cup. She gave a malicious smirk, clearly angry at his choice of vessels, but pleased to see him so low. He turned and handed the cup back to Joffrey.

"Kneel," he said, resting his hand on Widow's Wail demonstratively, partially unsheathing it, "before your King."

Tyrion blinked a few times at his nephew in disbelief. There was nothing he could possibly stand to gain from this.

Heart nearly jumping from her chest, Joffrey's threat to collect the blood of her loved ones with his own blade sprung to her mind. She feared for Tyrion. Realistically, she would have loved to say she believed the King wouldn't spill blood at his own wedding, but after the day's events and her longstanding feeling of discomfort, she wasn't sure what he was truly capable of. One thing was for sure; Sansa could stand no more of this. She needed to extract them from the situation once and for all. She knew it was a long shot, but she had one thing going for her: her presumed fragile disposition. She could stage a fainting and no one would expect any less. Bringing her breath up to a much hastened, exaggerated paste, she fluttered her eyes dramatically before sending herself crashing from her chair before her husband could bend the knee.

"Lady Sansa's fainted!" Varys called from the crowd, hoping to draw attention. Tyrion whipped around, staring at his wife on the floor blankly for a moment before rushing to her side. The attendees gasped and whispered.

"Tyrion-" she called weakly. He reached down, brushing her hair from her face. "Let's get out of here. Please," she whispered.

Moving to the dais, Podrick motioned for Bronn to help him get the lady up and into her chair.

As the three men saw to Sansa, Margaery aimed for another distraction, noticing the bakers descending from the mouth of the lion. "Look, the pie!" she called to the crowd, still watching her friend from the corner of her eye.

Whispering between themselves, Tyrion offered a hand to Sansa. "Can you stand, Sansa?"

She nodded, taking his hand. He nodded to Podrick and Bronn to see her out and motioned to walk in front of him.

"Uncle, where do you think you're going," Joffrey called, placing his cup on the edge of the table. "It is treason to turn your back on the King!"

Digging her fists into her escorts shirts, she shook her head and they stopped, turning around and standing still.

"My apologies, Your Grace. Lady Sansa is not feeling well," Tyrion explained. "I was going to take her back inside for a moment. She's still not used to the Southern heat," he said lightly before gesturing to his own wine-soaked clothes. "I thought you might also appreciate your cupbearer to look his best, not some sodden fool."

"Why would today be any different?" he spat. Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out. "No, I will have my aunt and uncle here. Family belongs at a wedding." He pointed to the ground, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, insisting that he stay where he was.

Margaery moved to his side, gently touching his arm and, with a grand sweeping movement of her arm, suggested that they see to the pie. She nodded at Tyrion, then looked at Sansa, mentally screaming for them to get out while they could.

He gave her a grateful nod and carefully moved to Sansa's side as Joffrey and Margaery, together, took a swing at the enormous pie, allowing for the birds to fly out. Joffrey laughed, noting that they'd killed one of the little doves with their strike.

She swallowed hard before giggling at their good fortune, before feeding him a piece of crust playfully.

"Very good. A touch dry, perhaps. Uncle?" he called, snapping his fingers to call attention to his need. "My wine."

Tyrion did as he was bid, bringing the cup to his nephew, despite his better judgment. The King drank the whole thing down in one go before returning to the pie, keeping the cup between his fingers.

"Now, if it please, Your Grace, Lady Sansa is-"

"No!" he barked, face growing red. "You will stay until-" I say otherwise, he meant to say, but he found his throat closing immediately, sending the cursed cup to the ground with a clash as it rolled across the floor.. He gasped for breath, hands flinging to his neck as he coughed.

Margaery looked on in horror. "He's choking!" she cried. Cersei ran to her son's side, pushing her new daughter-in-law out of the way.

There was nothing she could do, however. Joffrey collapsed, beginning to convulse. Kneeling by his side, the Queen regent shook, wordless. His skin turned from red to a ghastly purple. A bead of blood came from his nose. The whites of his eyes turned scarlet. Another trickle of blood. He clutched at the front of his mother's dress. He reached for something ahead of him. The light faded from his eyes as his pupils grew large. The remnants of his last breath escaped his lips.

As quick and suddenly as it had started, it ended. A raging flame snuffed from burning.

The garden was silent as the grave. Not a soul dared make a sound. Most couldn't have if they'd tried, the shock of it all too great to process.

Trembling, Cersei rocked her lifeless baby boy protectively. She looked up and the first thing she saw was her monstrous brother. He'd stolen her mother from her with his first breath and now he'd stolen her son. Shaking, she began to fume, unable to stand the sight of him anymore. "Take them!" she shouted, pointing at Tyrion, then Sansa. "Take them! My brother and his stupid little wife! Take them!" She shoved one of the Kingsguard members forward as he passed her.

Tyrion was overtaken easily enough. "Sansa!" He called for his wife but got no response save for a muffled cry from behind a clasped hand. When he saw that Bronn and Pod had been restrained and several of the men were grabbing at whatever bits of Sansa they could catch, he managed to wrench himself from them in a surge of power they hadn't expected. "Sansa! Get off of her!"

Distracted by the commotion, the man loosened his grip just enough that Sansa could lay her teeth into the man's hand. "Tyrion!" She cried. He was swept off his feet by Ser Meryn and held a foot off the ground. "No! Let me go!" She screamed and pulled against the men holding her with every bit of strength she had in her body. "Tyrion!" Sansa's screams pierced through him, so shrill and scared. Her voice strained with the effort.

"We had nothing to do with this," Tyrion yelled. "Cersei, you know that!"

Unmoved, she stayed clinging to Joffrey's corpse. "You did this! You killed my son!"

Kicking and writhing, Tyrion managed to land his heel squarely into Ser Meryn's groin. If he wasn't so worked up, he might have landed a joke as well. Someone caught his wrist and he slipped through it. "Let go of me," he growled when they tried again. Pulling an empty decanter from the table, he lobbed it at the man restraining his wife, hitting him square in the ear. He stumbled and fell back. "Sansa, go!"

She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled. "Not without you." The couple took off through the gardens but were fairly easily cornered by the Goldcloaks who were now running from the keep. Sansa panted and looked around for another escape route but found nothing. She grabbed her husband's hand. "I'm sorry, Tyrion," she said breathlessly. She didn't know what she was sorry for, but it was the only thing she could think of to say.

When the men had them up against the garden wall, they wasted no time on niceties. Tyrion and Sansa struggled and screamed the whole way, but were both lifted from the ground and carried to the dungeons where they were dumped unceremoniously to await further instruction.

Long after the sun had set and a chill swept over the dungeon, Tyrion put his arms around Sansa and rested his head on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Sansa," he whispered.

"For what?" she asked, baffled by his apology.

Tyrion was quiet for a moment, lost in thought, then shrugged, offering nothing more than a weak, "Getting you into this mess."

Sansa shook her head. "You didn't kill Joffrey. You didn't get me into anything." In her exhaustion, she found herself resigned to what had happened.

"No, but if I hadn't mentioned-"

"If you hadn't mentioned that I am your soulmate, there would be no guarantee of anything. In fact, if you hadn't saved me, one of two things would likely have happened:" she said, wondering if he truly hadn't thought of it like she had, "Joffrey would have killed me that night or I would be in Margaery's position and Cersei would kill me in due time." Tyrion pursed his lips, unhappy with the suggestion of either outcome. She reached for the hand he lay in her lap and stroked it gently. "My position here has been sealed since Joffrey killed my father. I've been living on borrowed time for ages." Sansa looked at Tyrion, tears welling in her bright blue eyes once more. "At least I got to spend some of that time in the type of marriage people only dream about; one full of love and understanding and tenderness and fun." She sighed, leaning against him. "I should have known it was too good to be true. I don't regret it for a moment, Tyrion." She pressed her cheek against the top of his head and lowered her voice. "You have to know that. But, I've been waiting for the ax for some time now." He looked up at her, absolutely stunned by her grim take. He supposed, on some level, it was realism and largely at fault of her treatment since arriving at King's Landing, but even so, he would never have imagined such a dark perspective. "But that's just me. If he hadn't killed you that night for trying to protect me, you'd be here wrongly accused right now, alone."

A tired laugh disguised as a puff of air escaped his lips. "Wrongly? How are you so sure that I didn't kill him for what he's done to you alone?"

It was Sansa's turn to shrug then. She had no real reason. "Because I believe I know you well enough for that. You wouldn't, unless well and truly provoked. Not when we weren't directly in harm's way." When Tyrion seemed moved to protest, she gave him a little shove with her shoulder. "You're a good man, whether you choose to admit it or not. I know that we've both fantasized about countless ways for him to meet his well-deserved end, and there are no two people who would be more justified if we had." When she really came to think on it, Sansa realized that whoever had done it could likely have killed him with their bare hands and they would still be considered guilty for it. She gave a quick laugh and added, "On some level, I'd like to believe that you would have told me if you'd been planning this. I'd like to believe you'd have asked if I'd like to help or at least that you would have considered that I could."

Strange as it was, Tyrion couldn't help but feel a bit of relief at her take. His wife was turning out to be as good at this game as any other. "I believe it goes without saying that I know you had nothing to do with this," he said, returning her shove with a sad smile. They lapsed back into a tenuous silence.

Sansa began to shiver and tucked her legs up into her skirts, covering Tyrion's legs with them as well. He took off his doublet and draped it around her shoulders. "At least we don't have to worry about what we're going to do when I go back to my Master of Coin duties in the morning," he said sardonically.

She laughed despite herself. Quite pleased with himself, Tyrion laughed, too. Realizing just how ridiculous their situation was, and how hopeless it really was, all they could do was laugh for a long time. It didn't even seem real. The guards must have thought them mad. When one of the gaelors banged the hilt of his sword against the door, their laughs subsided, plunging them back into their surroundings. "What are we going to do?" Sansa asked.

All Tyrion could do, for the moment, was shake his head. They'd figure something out. They had to. He would not let Sansa be right about her presumed fate.


	13. Chapter 11

Their first night as prisoners went as well as could be expected, Tyrion supposed. Despite having so narrowly avoided the Sky Cells of the Vale as he had, he'd never experienced it before. The haybales made to be a cot kept them from having to sleep on the cold, hard floor. There were small, wooden stools that Tyrion imagined were meant to be sat upon, but as he could hardly perch himself on one, there was no way that anyone else could have used them. But all in all, they weren't exposed to the elements, there was a window, and it didn't seem to be too horribly infested with vermin. Moreover, they were together. If they'd meant to torture him, they could have kept Sansa in a far off cell. He wondered what it could mean that they hadn't. Surely, it wasn't kindness. What were they up to? Still, neither got much sleep.

As the sun began to stream in the high window, Tyrion rose to pace the room. Sansa simply watched him from the corner. She was too tired to move, too scared to sleep, and too worried about him to be the first to break the silence. She wouldn't pretend to know what he was feeling, or the intricacies of his thoughts, but she certainly could tell he was thinking of ways to get them out of it. Them, she let her mind say, but she knew him well enough to know that if all else failed, she was the one he would be trying to come up with a failsafe for. Shifting her arm to support her head a little higher, she observed his path- around one beam, to the wall, brush his fingers against the stones, turn, around the next, straight back to the first, firm whack against the wood, repeat, kicking at clumps of straw all the while. Over and over. Again and again. She'd never seen him like this. Granted, this situation was certainly out of the ordinary.

Putting all of that aside, Sansa rose to her feet when the door opened. Tyrion stopped his movement and turned to face the intrusion as well.

"Milord, Milady," greeted the visitor meekly.

Sansa eased. "Ser Podrick," she said, bowing her head gently and walking toward him.

"How can we be of service?" Tyrion asked, jokingly nonchalant, as though the boy had entered as they were breaking their fast in their rooms.

The young man waited to hear the door click shut behind him before bustling deeper inside, toward the small stool against the beam nearest Tyrion. "I brought some wine but they confiscated it," he said sadly. Tyrion shook his head, preparing to console and thank the boy for trying but he was cut off by his former squire's shifty smile. "They didn't find the candles," he said, pulling them and each subsequent item from different compartments in his clothes, laying them out on the surface, "quill, parchment, hard cheese, duck sausage." Sansa gave a tense, quiet laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

"You're a good lad," Tyrion said, leaning his back against the wood.

Sansa brought two more of the small stools over to the men and gestured that they sit before returning to get one for herself. "What are they saying?" she asked when she'd finally settled.

"You're to stand trial in a fortnight for murdering the king," Podrick said, looking sadly between them.

"Do you think we did it?" she asked, trying to keep her tone even. If he thought they did, it was highly unlikely that anyone in King's Landing would have believed their innocence for a second.

Avoiding her gaze, he hunched forward, digging his elbows into his thighs. "No, milady." He glanced up at Tyrion quickly, as though to make sure that he'd answered correctly.

"No," Tyrion scoffed, reaching out to swat at the boy's knee. "Gods, no."

Unable to bring himself out of his gloom seeing the two people in all of King's Landing he truly cared for in such a state. "The world is a better place without him," he admitted quietly.

Despite his attempts at seeming like he was resolute in his belief of their innocence, Tyrion saw right through Podrick's facade. He sighed, leaning forward a bit. "I would like to think, if I were to plan a royal assassination, I'd plan it in such a way that I wouldn't be standing there gawking like a fool when the bastard died," he gave a crooked smile to Pod, then rested his arm across Sansa's back. "And I certainly wouldn't leave my wife in the crossfire."

"I suppose not, milord." That was certainly something that had been mentioned repeatedly in the past twenty-four hours. He was one of the smartest men in the city.

If anyone had been able to plan a murder without getting caught, it should have been him.

Tyrion stood again, beginning to pace with his fists dug firmly into his hips. "So, this trial. Have they named the judges?"

Sitting up straight, the knight answered, "Your father..."

"Of course," he answered with a flippant hand gesture.

"Mace Tyrell..."

Tyrion closed his eyes, bored with the predictability of it all, and responded, "Who will do whatever my father says."

"And Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne."

Brows furrowed, Tyrion turned back to Pod, stopped dead in his tracks. "Oberyn?" He huffed a little, wondering what that could possibly do for Tywin. Truthfully, it almost seemed reckless, given his desire to avenge his sister's death. "Well, leave it to my father to capitalize on and exploit a family tragedy."

Pod nodded, adding "He's also been named Master of Laws, so it does make some sense."

"Master of Laws," Tyrion mused. He supposed it made sense, but it certainly reeked of ulterior motives. "Well, then." It was certainly perplexing.

Sansa turned to Tyrion, crossing her legs and folding her arms in her lap, expression serious. "But, at the feast, he and Ellaria seemed to like us. Especially with your matching Myrcella to his son," she said, trying to hold fast to any hope that she could manage.

Giving a sad shake of his head, he crossed back to his wife, sitting beside her and taking her hand gently. "It is also her brother we're supposed to have killed, Sansa."

Dreading his next task, wondering just who he'd offended to carry out this message, Pod closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. "I'm supposed to get a list of names from you. Anyone you wish to testify on your behalf."

"No," Sansa declined. The only people she could think of were her handmaidens, Bronn, and Podrick, and she would never risk their lives in such a manner. "I don't think that's wise. Anyone we call will end up manipulated by Cersei and I don't want to lose anyone else I care for."

The knight looked to the Lord sadly. Tyrion was quiet for a moment, mulling over anyone he thought would be both willing and able to stand for them. "What about Lord Varys?" he suggested.

Signaling his confirmation of Tyrion's suspicion with a shake of his head, he replied, "He's been called by the Queen."

"I'd thought as much," Tyrion admitted.

After a few moments of silence, Pod's mouth pulled into a tense frown. He couldn't bring himself to mention his the others that he knew had been called. Bronn and Shae had received their summons and fled rather than find themselves in the thick of a loaded court preceding. And he himself... He swallowed, choking back his thoughts, deciding to call Cersei into question instead. "Do you think she might have..."

"No," Sansa answered immediately.

At the same time, Tyrion replied, as well. "Say what you will about Cersei, but she loves her children." He took a deep breath and pursed his lips, perplexed. "Usually when something goes wrong in my life, she's at the top of my list of suspects, but this, I'm absolutely certain she had nothing to do with. My father on the other hand..."

"Why?" Sansa asked, not seeing his reasoning.

Simply shrugging his shoulders, he mused, "Perhaps he'd grown tired of managing Joffrey, especially when Tommen is much easier to handle."

"Is that likely?" the younger man asked, slightly shocked at the thought. He knew Lord Tywin was cruel, but this was something else entirely.

"I wouldn't put parricide past Tywin Lannister, especially when it comes down to getting his way." He paused, realizing another one of his father's longstanding problems would be cleared up as well. "Implicating me for it gets rid of me, a wish nearly twenty-nine years coming for him," he admitted. Sansa reached an arm around him and pressed a kiss to his temple. "How are you here, Pod? Are they allowing us visitors?"

The young man laughed. "They decided I was harmless enough. I believe the Dowager Queen believes me simple," he admitted, bobbing his head a little before rising with the intent to leave.

Tyrion shook his head, a doting gleam in his eye. "Don't believe that for a second, my boy."

"But don't let her know you're not," Sansa advised. "She likes to hear herself speak and does it quite often if she doesn't realize you understand and could very well use it against her someday."

Pod offered a weak nod, trying desperately not to let them see how torn up he was about the whole thing. He turned away for the door, willing himself not to say good-bye; not to be morbid. They'd go to trial and justice would reign. It had to. As he reached to knock to be let out, he turned back. "There's something else, my lord," he started, finding himself as close to the couple as he could be, voice low so that the guards wouldn't overhear. "A man. He was dressed like a member of the King's Guard, only I didn't know his face. I don't think he actually was. He approached me and told me I was to testify against you as well. That I was to say that you purchased a poison called the strangler and that Lady Sansa had known that you were Soulmates long before your declaration and that you'd been in love and seeking retribution against the King for seeking her hand." He knew he was rambling, but he needed to mention it all before he left.

"How does that make sense?" Sansa asked, furrowing her brows. "I didn't even know when you brought me to him after the Battle at Blackwater."

He shook his head, folding his hands in front of him. "I don't know, milady. But, the man said that I'd be offered a position in the City Watch for my service," he said, tone quite the opposite of someone who'd been given such an ostentatious opportunity.

Tyrion blinked a few times, realizing that there were only two possible next steps. He could only hope that Pod had made the right decision. There was only one way to find out. "Oh," the Lord crooned, avoiding Sansa's worried glances between the pair. "The gold cloak will suit you nicely," he said, silently begging not to be corrected; that the boy had done the safe thing, not the noble thing. He couldn't bear it if the boy risked his neck for him again.

Stammering in disbelief, the knight took a step back, as though slapped. "I told him no."

"Pod, you didn't," he whispered, shoulders slumping forward sadly. Similarly, Sansa rested back against the pillar, closing her eyes and shaking her head. This was exactly why she'd said no to calling for anyone to speak on their behalf. Knowing that he'd been called upon by the crown only made matters worse. They were going to manipulate him, at best, or kill him. She knew what Tyrion was going to advise and it was the only answer she could think of as well. Run.

Still reeling that his choice hadn't been the obvious one, he began to explain. "Of course, I did, milord. You've always been kind to me and I would never betray you or Lady Sansa."

Resting his weight on his elbows, dug into his thighs, Tyrion sighed. He truly didn't want to offend the boy. He was grateful for his loyalty. He wondered if he knew what this meant. "I appreciate that, dear boy, I do- but that was unbelievably reckless. You know the city is no longer safe for you, now."

"Why?" he asked, a little frustrated by the insinuation that he couldn't take care of himself.

"They'll be watching you now," Tyrion explained.

Folding his arms in front of his chest, the former-squire felt himself growing more and more alarmed by the slightly unexpected reaction. "Who?" he asked.

Tyrion was dumbfounded. "They, they," he gestured around the room, at the window, the walls, the door. When the boy seemed more perplexed than scared, he grew more anxious. "They! The all-encompassing ubiquitous They. Whoever framed Sansa and me for murder," he said, wondering if Podrick had somehow missed the way that King's Landing worked after all this time. "And the overlord They known as the Lannisters who did not ask you to testify," he added, clarifying, they told. When the time comes, they will expect you to do so."

"I won't," he insisted.

"And I won't go to the executioner's block and see your head on a pike before me!" He gestured emphatically and his voice boomed around the near-empty cell, startling them all, himself included.

Sansa, most of all, wasn't used to hearing her husband speak in such a way. She'd heard him angry. She'd heard him anxious. She'd heard him worried. This was fear. This was dark. She reached for his arm, trying to comfort him. "Tyrion, stop," she coaxed.

"I'm sorry," he said through gritted teeth. "But Pod, this will have to be good-bye."

"Milord?" he asked. A genuine hurt tinged his voice.

Shaking his head sadly, Tyrion stood, walking toward him. "You'll have to go. Flee the city," he advised.

Realization sinking in, Pod understood why they'd reacted that way; the severity of it and the implications saying no had brought. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing between the two.

Sansa rose to address him. "Don't be," she said, taking him by the hand and kissing him gently on the cheek in gratitude. "Thank you, Ser Podrick, for everything." She owed him a great deal and, if she was never to see him again, she wanted him to know that she knew how lucky they both were to have had him by their side.  
Podrick turned to leave, emotions fully on edge now. He'd told himself he'd be strong, that he wouldn't let them see his fear.

Tears clouding his vision, "Pod," Tyrion called to him as he reached the door. He turned back one final time, "there has never been a better, more loyal squire, and now a more noble knight or valued friend."

Unable to bring his voice to cooperate, Podrick gave a watery smile and nodded before knocking to be released from the cell. When the door closed, behind him, Tyrion and Sansa shared a wordless glance, both rather less hopeful than they'd like to be.

Noticing how easily the days began to blend together, Sansa began marking each new sunrise by tying a piece of straw to another, much the same way as a child would make a flower crown. She left the links hung on a nail over the makeshift cot so that they'd be able to find it each day. Tyrion lay beside her, trailing his hands over her back. She was surprised at how grounding this little morning ritual was. It helped remind them both that this was, indeed, happening. As she added the eighth piece, she found the shock waring off of how they'd wound up here. She found herself, for the first time, truly feeling the effects of everything that had happened.

As her soft tears began to fall more desperately, her husband sat up, moving to hold her. "I don't believe it," she sobbed, finally finding her words.

"Believe what?" he asked quietly.

"He's gone," she sniffed, cries caught in her throat. "He's really gone."

Tyrion shifted, growing ever more concerned, "Sansa..." But his voice trailed off. He could never have imagined her shedding a single tear for the little bastard.

"No, no," she said, words coming out in a strangled gasp, "these aren't mournful tears. There are a lot of emotions, many too complicated to name, but I can promise you," she assured, turning to him and wiping at her eyes, willing her heaving chest to still, "I do not mourn." Tyrion raised his brows a little, hesitating to see if she had more to say.

She did.

Sansa hadn't realized how callous her insistence would sound. It was so easy to forget that Tyrion had any possible attachment to Joffrey, but of course, he could. He was his nephew, after all. Suddenly ashamed of herself, she added quickly, "I'm so sorry. Do you? For all his horrors, he was your nephew. Your family." Resting her hand on his as he'd done for her when she sobbed for her mother and brother, remembering how much help he'd been then and how soberingly cold her reaction just now had been. "Jaime's son."

With a sad shake of his head, Tyrion was once again left floored by how she cared for him. The woman had suffered so much at the hands of the Lannisters, and still, she found it within herself to acknowledge that, at the end of the day, they were still his blood; that perhaps there was some level of fondness. "No. I don't feel for him. I do feel for Jaime, a little, but there is very little traditional tenderness there." He permitted himself a moment to wonder if Jaime even knew, yet, that his eldest son was now gone, if he even cared. He was the only one who deserved any sympathy in this whole situation and Tyrion couldn't even be sure if he'd want it.

"I'm so sorry for the way he treated you," she continued guiltily after a moment. "That stunt at the wedding. Why?"

Tyrion shrugged, not particularly interested in the whys and wherefores of Joffrey. As someone who prided himself on his ability to read people, he was especially put off by the idea of dissecting the mentality that caused Joffrey to do the things he did, especially the older he got. "He was singularly horrible, but he didn't need a reason," he concluded to Sansa. "But, for the first time in my life, I had someone on my side," he smiled at the still-recent memory of her being firmly beside him. "Your fainting spell as an attempted distraction was inspired. And doting on me with the wine?" he quirked an eyebrow at her, lifting her hand to wag her fingers demonstratively.

Blushing at the realization of how forward she'd been. "I thought, perhaps..." she trailed off. She'd been so caught up at the moment that, maybe, she hadn't thought at all. It had largely been reactive, which was unlike her. Likely an effect of the bond she shared with her husband, sometimes it was as though her body knew things her mind didn't; how to help, how to please.

"You tried. Sansa, for the first time in my life, someone showed care for me in public." He kissed the back of her hand, still clasped in his, and laughed. "In fact, the grip you had on my leg, I thought for a moment you might lunge at him."

Tilting her head to the side, she admitted bashfully, "The thought crossed my mind. But that would have made things worse, I suppose."

"Indeed," Tyrion confirmed, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her cheek.

Five more links added to their straw woven calendar. Five more days without so much as a word of the outside world, their meals, if you could call bread and water a meal, were kicked through a slot in the bottom of the door. Tyrion had given up days prior on tormenting the guards, so instead, he and Sansa tried to keep their spirits up as best they could. The isolation was nothing particularly new, as they'd largely chosen it for themselves since their wedding, but the sinister air of the dungeons tainted their every word. Fond memories became bittersweet. Any mention of their future was tinged with doubt, for who could tell if there was any hope for that future now.

Tormented in dreams by a grisly image of the late king's purpureal visage hovering over her, spewing vitriol, Sansa's sleep was restless. She could feel the monarch's bony, angular fingers, deathly cold, pressing against her flesh. The still too familiar weight of his body startled her awake with a jolt. She panted, sitting up quickly.  
As Sansa rose from the hay bale bed, she quickly found herself lightheaded and on her knees over the bucket they'd been granted as a chamberpot. Her wretching woke her husband.

"Sansa?" he called, noticing her absence from his side. "Are you alright?" he asked, offering her the last of their water ration from the night previous as she returned to the bed, but decided instead to sit on the floor for fear of her dizziness reappearing. He sat up, moving toward her. "Here, lean forward," he suggested, sitting directly behind her and pushed her hair to the side, rubbing her neck. She rested against his knee. "Is that better?"

She nodded, adding a quiet "Thank you."

Tyrion could feel her whole body tremble. Whether it was cold, sickness, fear, or some wicked combination of the three and more, he couldn't tell. All he could do was try to comfort her. "You're alright," he cooed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm here."

"I'm just nervous, I think," she confessed, "Tomorrow, correct?"

He looked to the chain of straw on the wall. "So they say."

Tomorrow came and went. As did tomorrow's tomorrow. And five more tomorrows hence. Every day, the couple expected to be shackled and dragged before the throne to plead their innocence. Every day, they were left to themselves. Every day, Sansa grew more frail. Every day, Tyrion's rage and fear grew.

"I'm glad they appear to have forgotten that they were supposed to try us," she admitted as they sat huddled on the floor to break their bread around midday.  
Tyrion pulled her closer, brushing a strand of her hair from in front of her sullen eyes. "Why is that?"

Unblinking and unfocused, Sansa stared at the bread in her hands. "I can't think of a single thing they could have asked that would have earned an answer that didn't make me look guilty." She turned to Tyrion, watching him carefully for a reaction. "I can think of very few that wouldn't incriminate you by sheer loyalty and association. That is to say, at this point," she took a sharp intake of breath then began, "even if we were to disregard his cruelty toward you and attempt on your life, as they'd be things that wouldn't have been as long-standing in my public perception so people may not realize how deeply that would affect me, between his killing of my father, ordering the deaths of my mother and brother, attempting to have my little brother killed, the injuries you know you've prevented, the wounds you've seen heal." She took another deep breath to steady herself. "And then his own special tortures... the way he-"

"You want to talk about this now?" Tyrion asked, not meaning to interrupt, but well and truly confused by her timing.

Sansa chewed at her bottom lip nervously. Want was not the appropriate word. But still... "Why not? He's dead. So may we be in short time," she said. Tyrion gave her a sad stare, silently begging her not to talk like that. She simply shrugged. "I need you to know. Not that you'd have ever let him touch me again, but there's no threat now." She put the bread back down on the small plate it had been sent on. As fresh and raw as all of the trauma was, she knew she had to keep a certain level of calm if she was going to get this out. If Tyrion wasn't going to stop her. It should be easy enough. She knew that her demeanor was often slated as cold and unfeeling, so why shouldn't she be able to do it. Just detach from it. She decided to tell her story like it was one she'd read in one of the romance books she'd liked to read. All of the tortured star-crossed lovers had been her favorite, back then, so perhaps she could imagine it was the first part, before the Lady was rescued. "We didn't even make it to King's Landing before he decided that I was his so he could do what he liked. He said it was to punish me for my sister's brutality. Arya hardly did anything. She was standing up for her friend. anyway, that was the first time. He was forceful and he hit me but that was what I'd been told men were like." She made a disappointed noise. She'd always hoped her mother's accounts would be closer to the truth than her Septa's, but Joffrey had certainly turned out to be the selfish, violent brute she'd been warned of. Worse, even. "I asked one of my handmaidens about the increasing severity, described it to her." Tyrion's grip on Sansa was strong and supportive. He offered no commentary, asked no questions, simply listened to her experiences. It wasn't his place, and he knew it. He was just glad she trusted him enough to tell him. "She was a lot like the girl I have now that I'm so fond of, but I believe she was Lysene." Sansa hadn't thought of her in months. "She was one of the girls who hadn't been sent by Baelish to spy on me. But she had been a bedslave before, so I knew she had some experience in the matter, but she had been bought by a pirate for a journey to Dragonstone and freed. Once, right after that day at Fleabottom, she admitted that a friend secured her a place in the palace." She shifted to look at Tyrion. "Originally, I'd presumed it was you and you were trying to protect me, but I know that that was Shae-" Her husband blanched, eyes wide. "What, you thought I didn't know? Please, Tyrion, she's about as subtle as The Mountain in a satin gown." Tyrion laughed at the mental image, hugging his brilliant wife tighter as she gave her own laugh as well. "But, now I don't know. Do you know anyone from Lys?

Nodding his head, he admitted, "I do, indeed. If she's an acquaintance of Varys, that's a comfort, actually." He scrunched his face, still trying to work through what the man could possibly gain from it. "I don't have many friends in this city, but by and large, I would count him among them."

"Did Lord Varys know about your mark before?" she asked.

"He does tend to know everything about everyone," he said. He was the Master of Whispers, after all. Espionage was one of his strong suits. "Why?"

Sansa's smile dissipated as she returned to her tale. "Well, she was appalled by my stories. She tried to protect me. I trusted her. She insisted that she brew me moon tea every time he came to me because, if there was any chance of me getting out of the match, I could not bear him a child." She wrapped her arms around herself tightly, trying not to let Tyrion see how cold she was getting. "I'm so grateful to her. She kept mentioning me getting out of the match," she said, voice low, "that Joffrey couldn't be my soulmate, that my real soulmate wasn't far away and that I had to keep pulling through this for him." She brushed her fingers against the strong line of his jaw. She allowed herself to consider him for a moment, really taking in the fresh growth of whiskers, his sullen, sad eyes. She traced the scar across his forehead sadly. She didn't like what this was doing to her handsome, robust husband. It worried her. Still, at least he wasn't here alone. She couldn't imagine what would have happened if he'd been taken alone. Her heart would have broken. "It was like she knew something I didn't."

Lips pressed out and brows furrowed, Tyrion tried to remember if he'd ever mentioned his words to Varys. He couldn't think of a point where he would have. He'd been so staunch in not mentioning it to anyone for so long that he couldn't imagine, even drunkenly, disclosing that piece of information. "Odd. Perplexing, actually," he admitted. "I'd wager that, at some point in my youth, I came in contact with one of his little birds. I suppose it wasn't as much of a secret as I'd thought." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

Closing her eyes, she steeled herself to continue. "She was one of the ones who stayed on in Margaery's service, so I can only hope she's seeing to her as well as she did me." There was a year and some months between the first and last time he used her for his own brutal whims, but she didn't wish to go into detail. It hurt too much. She had scars and lingering pains but she had trouble isolating what injuries came when. Except, that is, the most recent one. She shifted a little to face Tyrion. "The last time he came to me was the night of the Blackwater." She looked past Tyrion's shoulder, trying to decide just where to start. She sighed. The beginning was best, she supposed. But what was truly the beginning of that awful night? "Cersei had spent a good portion of the night giving me strangely good advice, all things considered. In preparing me for or trying to frighten me against what would happen if your plan failed and Stannis had sacked the city, she said that we would all be in 'for a bit of a rape,' like it was nothing. Like it was a shake-up to seating arrangements for a feast. She added that 'when a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good.' She said that I'd be 'a slice of cake just waiting to be eaten.'" Sansa bit into the words Cersei spoke, matching her deliberate timbre so spot on that it chilled Tyrion to the core. Even if her imitation hadn't been so accurate, he had no doubt in his mind that those were his sister's exact words. "All of this advice, of course, fell upon deaf ears. I knew all of that already, I thought." She gave a sardonic laugh that troubled Tyrion more. "Wouldn't she have been surprised that her precious boy was the one doing all of the devouring." Seeing the concern in her husband's reaction, she shook her head. Her jaded commentary might have been too much, she supposed. "Just before you'd interrupted us earlier that night, he'd told me how, if the city should fall, he'd made arrangements for all of his men to "comfort" me as often as they wished but if we should be victorious, that he'd come right to my bedchamber. When Lancel came into the Holdfast and told Cersei that the troops had landed ashore, but Joffrey was safe in his chambers, I couldn't decide which of the Gods to curse. But that was what Cersei would have wanted. She had told me all about how your father caught her praying for the Gods to send your mother back to her and he went on a tirade-"

"The Gods have no mercy. That's why they're Gods," he interjected absentmindedly. He sniffed, raising his eyebrows as Sansa eyed him curiously. "Yes, I've heard that disquisition as well."

"When Ser Meryn came and took Cersei and Tommen away, the other ladies kept locked away with us began to panic," she remembered. That whole night still lived in her memory in vivid color. She wondered if it would ever stop feeling like she could step right back into the moment. Trying to root herself to the present, she laced her hands in Tyrion's and continued. "So, I led them in a hymn. The Tyrells landed. Everything was safe and the ladies of the keep were overjoyed. Ser Meryn showed up. 'The King is waiting,' he said." She shuddered, remembering the man's ferocity. When Joffrey didn't feel like getting his hands dirty with his daily abuse, he'd have Ser Meryn do it. She knew he was doing as his king commanded, but the way he looked at her... sometimes she wondered if he'd still do it, even if not told to. "So, I went. I knew that if I didn't, Ser Meryn would likely have thrown me over his shoulder and carried me to him. I thought, maybe, if I went peacefully, he'd be more gentle." She gave a sad shake of her head and Tyrion's heart dropped. "He'd never been rougher. He was angry that I'd kept him waiting. The mark on my back," she said, rolling her left shoulder demonstratively as Tyrion looked down instinctively, "that I know you wonder about when it's bare in front of you, it's fine," she clarified, bowing her head to meet his gaze, "is from that night. I, foolishly, asked him if it could, perhaps, wait until the following night 'because of all of the panic' and I made up a lie about how I'd appreciate him more if I wasn't so exhausted." She snorted a laugh. "Truthfully, I didn't want to bother any of my handmaidens for moon tea after such a trying day. He threw me on the bed, held me down with his dagger pressed into my skin so that if I were to try to get away, the blade would likely pierce my heart, and he took me from behind like a dog." She shuddered, feeling his phantom hands all over her body. "Usually, when he'd come to me me, I'd find myself divorced from reality. I'd just about float out of my body. Not that night," she said, lips twisting to one side, for a moment, trying to decide whether it was too much to continue. She'd already said so much, she couldn't bring herself to stop. "I was astutely aware of everything. The smell of his sweat, the sound of his breathing, his hand wrapped around my throat..." she trailed off. Tyrion remembered the way she'd flinched when he touched her neck the day they'd run into the King in the hallway and his belly lurched. His touch had brought her back to that moment. "When he finished, he handed me the scraps of my gown and dismissed me from his presence, not wishing to hear my sobs any longer." She looked at the ceiling, willing herself not to break down. "I dressed and headed for my chambers just in time for the morning meal and collapsed into my bed. I couldn't even cry. When my handmaidens came in, they took one look at me and knew. They're not very good at hiding their pity. And Shae has a certain level of anger in her..." she trailed off, remembering the way the girl had silently fumed that morning. "By the time I'd finished the tea Shae brewed, Pod was rapping at my door and brought me to your bedside." She gave a crooked smile and inched toward him, resting their still locked hands on her lap. "I was grateful to have something to focus on that wasn't my own life, but even more, I was grateful to see a friendly face," Tyrion seemed to want to interject, but she cut him off, reaching up and tracing his scar again, "even if it was unconscious and wrapped in bandages." He breathed a laugh, kissing her thumb as it passed his lips. "I normally didn't sleep after Joffrey visited me. That day, I held your hand and slept in that winged chair at your bedside. Pod kept trying to chase me out but I returned as quickly as I could," she recounted, wondering if he was aware of that. His expression seemed to express that he didn't. "At the time, I thought it was that I was hiding with someone who made me feel safe and that the moon tea was just taking its toll on me," she explained, before revealing her current stance. "Now, I know that that's not quite all. I was staying by your bedside because that's where I was supposed to be, Tyrion. We'd both had such trying days and we needed each other's support." Tyrion's eyes asked a question he couldn't bring himself to ask. "The Gods heard me praying for mercy and for your safety. They granted me both. Somehow, they keep granting me you and I'll take it for as long as they'll allow me." Remembering how this recountal started, she brought herself back. "So, yes, perhaps it's best that I not have to plead my own innocence. If they were to ask me if he'd ever hurt me, I'd say yes. If they were to ask me if I ever wanted him dead..." she trailed off, maintaining eye contact with Tyrion, knowing somehow that he'd understand, "I don't know that I'm a good enough liar to tell them anything but the truth."

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Tyrion looked at his wife for a long time before agreeing. "The way I feel right now- to want desperately to revive and kill a dead man, I can't help but say the same." We are fucked, aren't we, he thought to himself.

Even though it didn't help her to feel better, or help their situation, somehow, telling Tyrion what had occurred, and the way he'd reacted, lifted a weight from Sansa's chest.

Still, she found herself falling more and more ill with each passing day. Tyrion watched, trying everything he could to bring attention to her well-being to the men who passed their rations through the door. All he could do was try to keep her warm. She struggled to keep the bread and water in her stomach, but he would make sure she replaced it when she couldn't. He would help her off the cot and walk her around the room slowly, trying to retain as much of her strength as he could.

On the thirty-fifth day of their imprisonment, as they lay pressed against each other for warmth, his arm wrapped tightly around her middle and his face pressed into her shoulder. Sansa felt her mind beginning to wander more frequently. She turned to face Tyrion, sliding her leg around his, she tried her very best not to slip into the nightmares she frequently found herself in, even in her waking moments.

"I hope Margaery is well," she mused, realizing that she was probably out of mourning by then.

"I'm sure she's taken care of," Tyrion said calmly. "And safer now than she has been in months."

That much was definitely true. They all were, to some extent.

Except, that is, for Tyrion and Sansa. There was nothing safe about their situation. Nothing, that is, except each other.


	14. Chapter 12

The chill of the morning had yet to burn off as the sun rose over King's Landing on the horizon. A single rider sped through what remained of the woods. They'd left the Inn at the Crossroads a few days earlier, learning that their business in the city was more urgent than they'd thought.

From horseback, the world seemed to make more sense. They had a clear purpose. They had a mission. The rhythmic clatter of the young courser's hooves mirrored the beating of their heart.

They didn't know if they'd make it in time. They didn't know if their presence would do any good. One thing was for sure, they were not going to wait for a raven or, worse, ill-mannered gossip to carry the news to them. They had to be in the thick of it.

Realistically, they knew that there wasn't much for them to do, but they just had to be there. They couldn't stand idly by and watch.

As the gates of the city drew ever closer, they found their stomach churning nervously. The smallfolk were starving in the streets. Businesses were boarded up. If business had been this bad before the King's death, they thought, why did no one fix it? Perhaps, they reminded themself, the Master of Coin is in prison. That could have something to do with it. What had they gotten themself into?

Approaching the Red Keep, they swallowed down hard. This is it, then, they prompted to themself. The lion's den, as it were.

Day fifty-two. Fifty-two days without any visitors since Podrick. Fifty-two days without so much as a word as to whether they were being tried or shipped off North of the Wall or hung. It grew harder to remember which end was up most days.

The hardest part for Tyrion was watching Sansa begin to slip away. His strong, Northern wife spent most of her time in a heap on the haybale they slept on. He would sit beside her and hold her head as she trembled, trying to share his heat with her. He wondered, perhaps, if her lethargy had other reasons, but he couldn't think of any.

Around sunset, a knock came to the door. The pair exchanged nervous glances and rose, striding to the center of the room together.

Mentally, Tyrion resolved that that was it, then. They were to be dispensed of. He took Sansa's hand and pressed it to his lips. If nothing else, he would fight until his dying breath for her.

Sansa, on the other hand, didn't have such a grim outlook. She had a strange feeling that this was going to be a good thing. It might not have the immediate resolution they both so desperately wanted- no, needed- but it was something. They hadn't been forgotten.

The door swung open and a shadowed figure entered the room.

"This isn't so bad. They had me in a mud pit tied to a post in my own shit for a while. That is until they realized I might be of some use," assessed the low, mocking voice, walking around the cell to find the loop on the support beam to rest his torch.

Unfamiliar though the presence was to Sansa, Tyrion would have known the voice anywhere. "Jaime?" he asked, squinting as he walked toward the man.

"Little brother," he greeted, sweeping Tyrion into a fond hug.

Shocked, Tyrion stammered. "When did you-"

Jaime moved to greet his brother's wife as well. "Last night. Lady Sansa, a pleasure as always. Though, I do wish it was under better circumstances." When he took her small hands within his, trembling and clammy. He took a step back to really look at the girl. She looked as though the slightest breeze could knock her over. "Are you ill?" He asked, casting a concerned glance to the still baffled Tyrion and back to her, guiding her to one of the stools. He watched her ease herself back tensely and would have sworn... no.

"The cold, I believe," she answered, shaking her head dismissively. "Thank you for asking, Ser Jaime. I'm glad to see that you've returned." She reached for her husband's hand and smiled, pulling him toward her and into the conversation, resting her head against his chest. "Tyrion has been so worried."

Something in the woman's smile calmed the elder Lannister. He considered the pair for a moment, then folded his arms, impressed. It was strange, Eddard Stark's eldest daughter and his brooding little brother, but somehow it fit. Somehow, even in these conditions, Tyrion found himself doting on his wife, which was all Jaime could imagine him doing with any woman, but this was different. There was a softness to the man, now. Sansa looked Tyrion with such care and adoration. He couldn't deny it. "I didn't believe it when they told me. You two really are in love, aren't you?"

Tyrion snorted a laugh. "Something like that." He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, before sitting on the floor beside her. "So, have they forgotten about us? Podrick came on our first night and said we were to stand trial in a fortnight. That fortnight was up over a month ago." Tyrion knew they hadn't forgotten them. That wasn't even slightly possible. Still, he didn't understand the holdup.

Sighing, Jaime leaned back against the support beam. The first thing he'd done when he arrived in King's Landing the night prior was sought out his father, expecting honesty. He'd always been afforded that. This time was different. Everything Tywin told him seemed disingenuous at best. "As far as I know, Father is still trying to piece together a case since most of the people he's tried to strongarm into testifying against you have fled the city. Even Lord Varys hasn't been seen in weeks." Jaime stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking about it. The city he stood in now was so different from the one he'd left what felt like a lifetime ago. Still, he couldn't help but sense the winds of change. People throughout Westeros claimed it was just Winter's pending arrival, but Jaime knew better. He'd seen political change too many times to deny it. Joffrey's death had been the catalyst for something big, but what still remained to be seen. "The pair of you have more people on your side than you think, it would seem. The people weren't exactly besotted with Joffrey."

"I recall," Tyrion said, his mind immediately flashing back to the day they'd seen Myrcella off.

"They seem to love Queen Margaery and King Tommen, though," Jaime reported proudly.

Tyrion's eyes widened. "King To-" He trailed off to a surprised, "huh." The boy was obviously much kinder than his brother, but he was still so young, hardly fifteen, and now a married monarch. "So fast. Interesting. I'd have assumed father would have put that off and ruled in his stead for a while."

Both men knew all too well what that meant for a child's formative years. Jaime was, understandably, wary about seeing Tommen under Tywin's thumb. "He's certainly holding the reigns."

The sad gleam in his eyes struck Tyrion to his core. Jaime had always been the prodigal golden son. He could do no wrong; kill a king, break a vow, fuck his own sister, and all would be forgiven. Tyrion knew better than to be too jealous though. The man had his own burdens to bear. Still, there was something different in his brother. Something more mature. Feeling a surge of pride and affection for him, it was almost immediately replaced with a bittersweet ache that he would likely never be able to know this Jaime.

After a while, Sansa was asking the inevitable. "Is Margaery alright?" She knew that it would be strange to ask, but she considered the woman a friend, and no matter how awful Joffrey was, she had watched her new husband die suddenly before her eyes. She wasn't sure if Jaime would have met her yet, but perhaps someone would have mentioned.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," raising a curious eyebrow to the girl's question. He had met Lady Sansa a few times, and even the last time, she'd seemed so much younger. She'd always been proper and restrained, but he couldn't recall if she'd ever struck him as particularly empathetic, but as far as he could ascertain, the girls had shared traumas, so it made some sense. "She's still largely in seclusion, but by all reports, she's coping. Shall I tell her you asked after her when I see her?"

"Please?" Sansa nodded, leaning against her husband for support. "I miss her very much." Casting a downward glance, she shook her head sadly. "Her absence is understandable."

"As would yours be, Jaime," Tyrion said. He could only assume that he had certainly put himself in quite the precarious situation in his appearance.

A sideways grin played at his lips. "I had to make sure you weren't being mistreated. I have done that," he pointed to the door with no intention of moving, joking, "shall I go?"

"Please don't," Sansa answered softly.

Tyrion wasn't concerned in the least that he would be anywhere else. "No. Still, given the circumstances..."

"Given the circumstances, there's absolutely nowhere else I should be," Jaime assured.

When they were young, Jaime had always been Tyrion's sole defendant. It seemed that would never change. He found comfort in his presence as the three talked softly. Jaime asked questions as to their treatment and promised to try to get them better rations. If his unvoiced suspicions were correct, he could only expect that his good sister's health would improve. Even if the guards wouldn't do it, he'd try to sneak it in himself. When he left that night, he'd sworn that he'd visit again, no matter what.

Returning night after night, Ser Jaime's visits grew longer and longer. He'd asked Lady Sansa about herself, what Tyrion had been up to since Winterfell. They discussed the incident that had led to Jaime's now largely unusable right hand. It wasn't hard to imagine a different world where they'd be able to talk like this as a family in the open.

With every passing day, Sansa would find herself losing hope that they'd ever be set free. She wouldn't voice it. She knew it pained Tyrion to hear her say it and she loved him far too much to ever cause him that pain. It wasn't that she was giving up, she just couldn't see a way out.

Tyrion's hope seemed to build steadily with Jaime's every visit. He was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. One night, Tyrion even found himself asking about things he possibly didn't want to know the answer to.

"So, how is our dear sister?" he asked.

Jaime sighed, leaning back against the support beam from his position on a stool across from the couple. "How do you think? Her son died in her arms." He folded his across himself sadly.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, questioning him. When he remained unmoved, he chanced the question. "Her son?" Sansa, who had been slowly nibbling at an orange largely disinterested in any conversation pertaining to Cersei nearly choked at the accusation, knowing that such claims had lost her father his head. She looked at her husband with reproach.

It didn't seem to bother him, though he deflated further, looking at his knees. "Our son," he whispered. Saying it out loud was something still new to him. He wanted it to be easier, but he knew it wouldn't. Still, it came more easily to Tyrion than it ever had. The words still hurt, but they didn't feel like they stuck in his throat.

Sighing, he began to pick at his trousers. "What difference does it make now?"

"I never thought I'd hear you claim him," Tyrion said, impressed at the new development. "Any of them."

Jaime shrugged, looking suddenly exhausted by his brother's line of question. "I have been trying accountability on for size. I know I still can't say it to her." The 'her' in question obviously Cersei, but it seemed that the man couldn't reconcile her involvement. "To be a father to them, to any of them, would be a death sentence for us all and I would never..." he trailed off. He'd loved his children from afar for so long, unable to even be a friendly uncle to them. He'd seen the man Joffrey was shaping up to be and knew that if he let himself be involved in any way, it would have killed him. He'd have tried to parent them and that wasn't his place. Cersei had made that much explicitly clear. She never even let him hold them. He'd been there for her through each of the births as Robert had never seen fit to be in the city for their arrivals. He'd fucked off to hunt for every one. Not Jaime. He'd been there for each child's arrival. He'd heard their new lungs scream and Cersei would dismiss him. It was upsetting, but he couldn't even remember if he'd ever held them as they'd grown. He'd watched the way Myrcella and Tommen had bonded with Tyrion and it nearly killed him. He'd never been a jealous man, but he could imagine that it wouldn't have been a far cry to label the way he felt as jealousy. He shook his head, rerouting the conversation back to facts, not emotion. "She called him our son as she wept on his tomb. In twenty-one years, she'd never once admitted to me that he was mine. It was manipulative. And hateful. She knows what he was. The things she said..." he sighed, looking at the pair sadly. "There are no two people in the whole of Westeros with more reason."

"Jaime, you know as well as I do that Cersei would just as soon have me killed than hear out what I might have to say." Tyrion laughed darkly. "The killer could throw themself at her feet, weeping, begging for mercy, give irrefutable evidence to their guilt, and she'd swear I paid them to do it."

Sansa looked to him and laughed, amused by the image. For some reason, in her mind's eye, the role was played by the court fool, Ser Dontos. Not that she particularly believed he'd done it, though she wouldn't blame the man if he had, it was just the way it worked out in her mind.

Tyrion, however, was no longer amused by the thought. "She won't rest until my head's on a spike," he assessed.

"Not just yours," Sansa said, looking back to the segment of fruit in her hand.

"That won't happen, even if Cersei managed to circumvent a trial altogether by just having me killed," he said. Tyrion knew it wasn't particularly likely that they'd manage to get out of here, but he would gladly give his life if it meant that Sansa didn't have to.

Jaime snorted a laugh. "Now that you mention it, she did ask."

"Should I turn around then?" Tyrion asked, a little more seriously than Jaime had expected.

"Don't," Sansa said.

Taking a deep breath, Jaime rolled his eyes. "I suppose that depends. Did you do it?"

There it was. The one thing they'd all been avoiding. They all knew the answer, but they hadn't actually broached the topic. Sansa watched them silently. She didn't suspect for a moment that Jaime would ever kill Tyrion, but she wasn't sure he didn't suspect.

"The Kingslayer brothers," Tyrion said the phrase aloud and laughed indignantly. "Do you like it? I do." He shook his head and focused on Jaime. "Do you really think I would kill your son?"

Voice level, Jaime replied, "Do you really think I would kill my brother?"

"Fratricide isn't much your style," Tyrion joked.

Struggling to find the word for nephew killing for a moment, wondering if there was one, Jaime finally found it. "Nepoticide isn't much yours."

"We appear to have quite a few -cides between the pair of us," he accounted, much to Sansa's dismay. "Homicide, Matricide, Regicide- What's the punishment for regicide? Drawing and quartering? Hanging? Breaking at the wheel?"

Eyes flicking between the couple momentarily, Jaime reported a quiet, "Beheading."

Sansa tensed, straightening her neck. Tyrion hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "Not particularly creative, is it? I suppose I'd hoped for something more dramatic. None of the options are my preferred matter of death." He rested his palm on Sansa's back, trying to reassure her that it wouldn't come to that.

"Warm in your bed at the age of eighty with..." Jaime remembered, trailing off as Sansa caught his eye warningly, having heard his wishes a time or two before. His voice faded into a forced cough.

Tyrion smiled warmly. "You know me well." He looked at his wife for a moment, kissing her shoulder gently. "At this point, I'd take the age of thirty as long as Sansa makes it to a hundred."

"Not likely," she countered, stroking his cheek fondly. "Do you honestly think, for a moment, that I'd be able to go on?" she asked, the love she carried for him still resting unspoken on her lips.

Jaime didn't stay much longer that night, but when he returned the following night, their conversation was much more somber.

The prisoners were sitting on the haybale cot when he entered. Sansa had clearly been crying and Tyrion was trying to console her.

"Do you think they'd allow a trial by combat? You'd be our champion, wouldn't you?" Tyrion half-joked after some time.

Shaking his head sadly, Jaime couldn't bear to look at Tyrion. The one thing he once would have been sure would get them out of this off the table. "I can assure you, that wouldn't end well. I am not fit to be anyone's champion. I couldn't defeat a blind stable boy with my left hand."

"What difference does it make when we're in a no-win situation as it is?" he laughed, knowing well that neither Cersei or Tywin would let Jaime die.

"Tyrion, why?" Sansa whimpered.

"Is this a joke to you?" the older man asked simultaneously, the same way he'd done when Tyrion had taken to pulling pranks on Cersei.

He scoffed, exhaling sharply. "Of course it's a joke. Just not a very funny one." He looked at the rafters briefly, then leaned back against the wall. "Where's your sense of adventure? Just imagine the look on Father's face. His entire legacy wiped out with the blow of a sword," he mused.

Jaime nodded, letting the image sink in. It was a thought. "Tempting. Very tempting, but futile nonetheless," he surmised sadly. "No, Cersei is as much his legacy as we are, even if he won't admit it. She's to marry the Tyrell lad and I'm sure he'll insist upon an heir for High Garden and Casterly Rock." Tyrion raised his eyebrows in surprise. From what he'd heard, Cersei was not exactly Ser Loras's type. In fact, after the display at the wedding, he found it almost impossible to believe that any of the Tyrells would be amenable to such a match. Still, Jaime seemed to be telling the truth. "He finds a way to get what he wants. You know that." The man seemed utterly defeated by his own assurance.

The shift in his demeanor didn't go unnoticed. Tyrion asked quietly, "Jaime, what's changed?"

He shrugged, a strange softness sparkling in his green eyes. "I'm tired and..." A smile played at his lips and it dawned on him.

"And you have something to live for," Tyrion surmised. Jaime didn't respond, avoiding his brother's gaze entirely. Still, Tyrion pressed. "You met her. Jaime, it wasn't

Cersei? I'd always assumed that that was why..."

He snorted, the entire idea seemed so foreign now. There was a time, when he was very young, that he might have thought that, even possibly hoped for it. If the words that had appeared on his flesh had belonged to Cersei, then there would be some hope for his redemption after all. Who would have argued with the Gods' design? He knew it would have been easy for that assumption to be made, but it couldn't have been farther from the truth. "No. I believe that Cersei's first words to me were not 'I am sworn to Lady Catelyn Stark."

Sansa sat bolt upright at the mention of her mother's name. She voiced a hoarse, bewildered, "What?"

"Why do you think I went on that Gods awful trip to Winterfell? No offense meant, My Lady," he said, not having heard her question.

Sansa tried again, inching forward on the cot, desperate not to be ignored. "Excuse me?"

Noticing her insistence and enjoying it, Tyrion ignored her question, addressing Jaime only. "The same reason I did. You weren't given a choice." He winked at his

brother, asking him to play along. "You swore an oath to protect the royal family."

"Hello?"

"True enough," he acquiesced, smiling mischievously. Truthfully, it quieted some of his anxiety about the state of them to see her stir so, "but I didn't fight it because I knew who was Lady of Winterfell. I had to find out. It seems you made your presence known as well."

"Ser Jaime?"

Feigning indignation, Tyrion responded "I did no such thing. I had no idea that they were going to Winterfell for a wife for Joffrey." That much was true.

"Sworn to my mother? Who is sworn to my mother?" she asked, nearly whimpering as she let her legs drop to the floor.

"A knight," he beamed.

Tyrion's eyes grew wide. "A what?" he balked.

"I knighted her," he confessed, "And I married her."

A broad smile graced Sansa's face as she offered an honest "Congratulations."

"That's wonderful news!" Tyrion said, "I'm so happy for you, brother!"

Sansa rested her hands in her lap, trying to temper her excitement. "Is she in the city?" She was certainly happy for Jaime, but moreover, this was another person in King's Landing who could, by all accounts, be a friend to them if they were ever to see freedom, someone who knew her mother.

"Unfortunately, no, my lady," he admitted. "Your mother and brother sent us in search of your sister after news of your wedding broke. She received a letter from my father that, by all means, should have rattled her; her oldest daughter, who'd been betrothed to the King suddenly bound to his grumpy old uncle?" He cast a teasing glance at his brother, then continued. "But she seemed convinced, while the letter was definitely intended to be mocking, that you would be safe; that your new husband was loyal and brave." Tyrion smiled but looked away. At least Lady Stark hadn't gone to her grave fearing her daughter's well being. Sansa pulled Tyrion a little closer. "I don't think she knew this one well. She seemed relieved. Given the circumstances, it was decided that, as much as I would love for Brienne to be here by my side, it would be best that she continue on in search of Lady Arya while I came back here to see to our family. Obviously, that was correct." He said, congratulating himself, in a way. All his life, he'd been told he was the stupidest Lannister. At least his instincts were well attuned.

"She sent you after Arya?" Sansa asked, suddenly feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of her. "Is she alive?"

With a noncommittal shrug, Jaime offered what knowledge he had of the younger Stark girl. "Before Brienne and I parted ways, we were at an Inn, having practically adopted a freshly knighted boy on the run from the Lannisters with a strange knowledge of King's Landing brothels and the Great Houses marriages and rivalries, and a sob story about the Lord he'd squired for banishing him from the city after being put on trial for the murder of his nephew." He tilted his head to Tyrion, wordlessly acknowledging that it had been Podrick who'd sent him. "The boy who did most of the cooking for the Inn claimed to have known your sister in a past life. They were captured by Father at Harrenhaal. She was last seen with the Hound riding for the Vale, presumably to try to sell her to your Aunt Lysa."

"The Hound?" Sansa's heart skipped a beat. It certainly didn't mean that Arya was safe, but she was alive. Her family hadn't been entirely decimated. "I suppose knowing she's alive is better than nothing."

While on the topic of the Starks, Jaime did feel the need to make mention of their losses to the girl. "I did want to offer my deepest sympathies. Your mother and brother weren't unkind to me, though I did deserve any cruelty that I endured at their hands. I hope you know that I was not a party to their deaths as gossip seems to suggest now." The Lannisters send their regards. He tried very hard to keep his ire for the whole situation hidden. "I was nowhere near The Twins at that point. It also bears mentioning that, at last report, your youngest brothers were thought to have experienced one of two fates, either burned in the siege of Winterfell by Theon Greyjoy or heading to the wall with a wildling and a man who, by all reports, was likely half-giant."

Tyrion turned to his wife curiously, suddenly remembering a conversation that felt like it had been lifetimes prior. "The Theon from your story... That was Theon Greyjoy?"

"Hush," she insisted, swatting him playfully. It was quite a bit to take in. He had just, potentially, given her hope that three of her siblings were still out there somewhere. "Thank you, Ser Jaime," she said, overwhelmed and on the verge of tears.

After a short while, allowing Sansa some time to process that information, Tyrion broke the silence. "Jaime, if you were not bound to Cersei through some inevitable power, then why?"

Jaime shifted uncomfortably. "It's complicated. When we were children, it was at her command. I didn't know that it was wrong," he admitted. There wasn't a time that he could remember that Cersei hadn't had her claws in him. "It had been going on since before you were born, Tyrion. Mother found us in bed together. We couldn't have been more than five. That's how we wound up with separate chambers." Tyrion gulped. He hadn't realized the depth of the situation. "Still, Cersei would come to me at night. I took the position with the Kingsguard to get away. At 16 years old, I ran away from her. I sacrificed my claim to the Rock, which I never cared for to begin with and as far as I'm concerned is still yours, even sacrificed protecting you from her," he added, painful though that was to say, "all to be away from her torture. For two years, I was my own man. I served the King and got to make my own decisions because I wanted to, not because Father said or because Cersei said. Then everything got messy again." He shook his head, and, unable to meet his brother's gaze, stared at the wall. "I killed the king to save the city from his plans. Robert and Ned wouldn't hear my side." He folded his arms, knowing that Tyrion had heard his explanation before. "Then, she had to go and marry Robert making me bound by oath to protect her. The first night she... We... It doesn't matter how you define it, I guess, but she threw herself at me and said that there was no better way for me to protect My Queen than from her bed." He laughed in his throat, the whole thing feeling like something that he'd made up. But it wasn't. It would have been too easy if it were. "Nine months later came Joffrey with all his fine blond hair and green eyes and pale skin. There was not a trace of Baratheon blood in him. I knew it then. I tried so hard to resist, but I believed her. I knew who she was and I still believed." He took a deep breath and shifted once more, planting his feet firmly on the ground, staring at a point between them. Tyrion and Sansa, however, watched only him. "When my mark came, I couldn't let her see it. She insisted that she didn't get one because you can't possibly mark down chatter between infants. She presumed, since she never noticed any words on me, that she was right. Self-absorbed as she is, she never even asked why my ankle has been wrapped to my calf for eighteen years." He lifted the left leg of his trousers and brandished the words proudly. "It would have had to have been quite an injury." He said, laughing as he lowered the fabric.

"But Myrcella and Tommen-"

"I am a weak man," he answered lamely, then thought better of it. He was trying to hold himself accountable, wasn't he? "No, that makes it sound like I wasn't a willing participant, but by that point in time, it was just easier to give her what she wanted. I'd grown used to it." He looked to his brother, wondering as he had so often over the years, how Tyrion would have reacted had it been he that Cersei had stuck her claws into. Not that he wished it on him for a moment, but just out of morbid curiosity. Even now, so many years later, he hadn't the slightest notion of how that would have happened. He shook the thoughts from his head and continued. It was his story, after all. "Being sworn to the Kingsguard meant I was giving away my shot at love. For a long time, it was easy. It wasn't until it became fun gossip when all of Robert's bastards had black hair but none of his trueborn children did that the consequences started to dawn on me. It's not exactly irrefutable, and the Gods know Lannisters are not the only blond-haired, green-eyed men in the Seven Kingdoms, but apparently, the whispers were loud enough." He knew that didn't particularly answer the question, but the fact was, he just couldn't answer it. He didn't know why he kept returning to her for so long, especially when he was old enough to recognize that what he was doing didn't feel right. Even if it had taken the bulk of his thirties, he could proudly say that he had overcome it. He had broken her spell. "I haven't been alone in a room with her but once since I've returned. She wept and wept over Joffrey. I held her as she cried. She tried to convince me to lie with her, to give her another son, and I cast her aside, finally showing her the words I'd hidden for so long. My heart never belonged to her." His body may have. His mind, too. But never his heart. "Whatever I felt... Whatever I thought I could feel was no longer of any import."

Sansa bowed her head a little. "My father didn't help your position, I'm sure."

Not having considered it through that lens, Jaime thought for a moment, then answered. "No, but I don't blame him. He was Robert's best friend and Hand. He was doing his job and telling the truth." By that point, he'd decided that he could no longer give in to Cersei; that her influence on him was too dark. There would have been consequences that he likely wasn't ready to face then, but nothing that wouldn't have been deserved for either or the adults involved. The children, however... That would have been the only downfall. They need never be held responsible for the actions that led to their births. "It would have been devastating, but still freeing. There would have been no need for secrecy any longer." He paused for a moment, imagining the fallout. He and Cersei would have been killed, that much is for sure. The children would have been exiled at best, killed at worst. He'd like to imagine that he would have been able to smuggle them aboard a ship for anywhere but Westeros and save them as the Aerys Targaryen had done for Viserys and Rhaella with their unborn child, the girl who currently sought to reclaim the throne. Joffrey would have gotten himself killed. He'd have struggled and fought for his claim to the throne, but that would never have happened. Perhaps Eddard would have taken claim. Unlikely, given the man's history. So, they'd have had to legitimize a bastard or pass the throne to Stannis. Neither of which sounded like particularly comforting options. Everything would have likely fallen to chaos quickly. Not that it hadn't done so anyway, he thought. "Sometimes, I wonder if Aerys didn't have some sense of the right idea. Just sit back and watch the world burn."

"There's still time for you to strike that flint," Tyrion responded.

There wasn't much left to say after that. Jaime took his leave for the night. Eventually, sometime later, Sansa and Tyrion lay on the cot to try to get some sleep.  
Tyrion was lost in thought, as he found himself so often when Sansa broke the silence. "We're never getting out of here are we?" she asked, opening her eyes to gauge his reaction.

Caught off guard, he whispered a low, "I don't know, Sansa." He had tried and tried to see some way to clear their names, but the fact that they had still, after fifty-nine long nights not seen any motion for their release or trial, he was beginning to lose hope.

"Tyrion, I'm sorry," she reached out to him, fanning her fingers through the growing beard on his tired face. She rested her forehead against his and frowned. "I'm sorry for everything. I lo-"

He pressed a kiss to her lips gently, truncating her words. "I love you, Sansa. We'll figure this out," he lied, pulling her into a tight embrace.

As she willed herself to sleep, despite another failed attempt at telling her husband she loved him, Sansa felt a dark cloud pulling ever nearer. If Tyrion couldn't keep up hope any longer, he couldn't see a way for herself to either.

Finally, a week after arriving in King's Landing, Jaime passed Queen Margaery in the hallway by chance. His Father and Cersei had told him that she and Tommen were not to be disturbed, so he was grateful for the happenstance. "Your Grace," he greeted, sweeping into a polite bow.

"Ser Jaime," she greeted, bobbing into a curtsey and smiling at the man, "are you well?" She was, truthfully, surprised that she hadn't made his acquaintance yet, but had presumed he had matters in the city that required his attention more urgently. Though he hadn't said as much, she knew that Tommen had noted his uncle's absence as well.

"I am, Your Grace, thank you. I come bearing a message," he answered, sweeping his hand to a nearby door, suggesting that they enter. Intrigued by what her husband's uncle could have as a message for her, she obliged. "I had hoped to see you before now, but as you've been in seclusion with grief and then your new husband, you might not want to hear this." She considered him for a moment. She'd been out of seclusion since well before his arrival and she and Tommen were on their Honeymoon and free from most of their duties. "Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion were both asking after your well being. Lady Sansa misses you much." He hung his head, unsure of how such a statement would be met by the new Queen. "It is understandable that you wouldn't go to visit the couple accused of killing your late husband, but she doesn't seem to be doing well in the dungeons."

Margaery tried to work through his message. She missed her friend as well, but what he was saying didn't make sense. "In the dungeons? Ser Jaime, you must be mistaken." She chewed at her lip nervously, brows furrowed. There had to have been some misunderstanding. Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion were gone.

"Begging your pardon, but no, I am quite certain," he assured. When Margaery didn't show any sign of ease with his claim, he continued to explain. "Upon my return, I was informed of my brother and his wife's imprisonment and I went to visit them immediately and have every night since."

She shook her head gently, her ever-present smile beginning to falter. "Tommen pardoned Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa weeks ago. They left for Casterly Rock immediately after. As a matter of fact, if I'm not mistaken, that journey takes a month, does it not? They should likely have arrived by now." Jaime took a step back to steady himself. Once again, his father and Cersei sought to lay ruin to innocent people. This time, though, he wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't. Margaery watched as he seemed to come to an unvoiced conclusion, but continued one. "My grandmother was at fault for Joffrey's murder. Her plan was never to implicate Lord Tyrion. She turned herself in three days later." Jaime considered the woman's words for a moment. He'd met Lady Olenna once or twice and, in his limited experience, that didn't sound like the whole story, but he couldn't worry about that now. He had to come up with a way to free his brother. "She wasn't a cruel woman, but she was scared for me. She just wanted to see her granddaughter safe." Somewhere along the way, Margaery had lost Jaime's attention. She watched him fret for a short while longer, then her confidence folded. She reached a hand out to touch his arm, bringing him back to the conversation. "Ser Jaime, are you telling me they're still here in King's Landing?"

Blue eyes searched green. The pair may not have known each other yet, but he could only hope that she could see his truest intention and not the reputation he held. Willing himself to stay strong, he allowed himself to answer her. "Yes, Your Grace. I am telling you they are still here in the Red Keep."

Margaery took a deep breath, swallowing her emotions back into a graceful, gentle smile, remembering once again how difficult the family she'd married into, twice now, was proving to be. She offered an arm to Jaime. "Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my chambers? It appears we should pay my husband a call."

"Absolutely, Your Grace," Jaime answered, nearly sighing in relief. Whether she believed him or not, the matter was closer to being solved.

The pair exchanged tense pleasantries as they walked. Secretly, Jaime was pleased that she'd wound up with Tommen. It was already clear that she could be good for him. Margaery seemed to be the type of fair but formidable presence that would truly bring out the most in the young monarch.

When they reached the door of the Royal Chambers, Margaery pushed the door open, finding her young husband reading at the desk. "My Love, are you free? It is a matter of great importance and some urgency." She closed the door behind Jaime and herself and ushered him in.

In a short time, Jaime had repeated his message and information to the King, strange though it was to process. He told him of how he'd been told that they were still awaiting trial, of their nightly visits, of their wellbeing. Any detail he could. Tommen seemed to age ten years over the course of his briefing. The teenager's jaw set to stone. His eyes darkened. The difference between Newlywed Tommen and King Tommen was startling.

He stood, crossing to the man. "Are you absolutely certain, Uncle Jaime?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Jaime said, a pang of guilt washing over him, realizing that he might have been a touch more considerate of the delivery of his story, "but I would know my brother anywhere and the trembling, ill woman he held answered to Lady Sansa, was enlivened when I mentioned Lady Catelyn Stark, and asked toward the wellbeing of the Queen."

"Mother said-"

"Again, forgive me," he interrupted, "but your lady mother and your grandfather would like nothing more than to see your uncle dead."

Tommen softened a little, giving Jaime cause to ease. "If what you said is true, Uncle Jaime, please take us to them."

The walk to the dungeons was eerily quiet. They descended staircase after staircase, into parts of the Red Keep that Margaery was unaware of and Tommen had scarcely dared explore. "They're down one more floor, at the end of the hall," Jaime whispered, urging them onward into the growing darkness.

In the corner of their cell, Sansa sat pressed up against her husband, who thumbed idly through a book Jaime had managed to sneak in the night prior. It was a strange feeling, she mused, something that had been so normal for them that now felt foreign due to their surroundings. Still, it allowed her the memory of a chilly night spent in their bed months prior. She watched him for a while, before allowing herself to speak. "Tyrion?" she said, calling his attention to her. He hummed in acknowledgment. "I love you."

Tyrion stopped, turning to her immediately, book all but forgotten. He wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her correctly. Sansa had just said she loved him. Unprompted and freely. His heart pounded in his chest. Still, he waited patiently for her to continue, as she seemed to want to do.

"I don't want to go another minute without you knowing that I love you." She tilted her head up and kissed him gently. "I don't know what the future may hold, but I just need you to know." She smiled, resolute in her decision to tell him, but kicking herself for not saying it sooner. When Tyrion seemed to be at a loss, she decided to say it again. "I need you to know that I love you." She kissed him again, this time more forcefully. "If we die in here, it cannot be that you don't know that I love you." A few tears began to stream down her face as they were so ready to do of late.

"Stop, Sansa. Please?" He said, holding her close and kissing her again. "You are not going to die." Tyrion wondered if the way she trembled now was the illness he thought they'd fought off returning or nerves from her confession. Either way, it startled him. "I love you and I will not let you die in a gaelor's cell for a crime we didn't commit." Tyrion heard the lock on the door began to turn and steeled himself. It was too early to be Jaime. He supposed it was likely someone bearing news of their trial or to dispatch them quietly. He held onto Sansa as tightly as he could, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. "I love you and I will not let that happen."


	15. Chapter 13

The dimly lit cell echoed with Tyrion and Sansa's hastened breath as the lock finally clicked into position. He held tightly to her, casting up a silent prayer that she be saved, even if he could not.

The door swung open and Tyrion swallowed heavily, rising to his feet and standing in front of Sansa. Her body tensed in abject fear.

In the now opened doorway, Tyrion saw the frames of three people; A woman and two men. He didn't bother to let his eyes struggle against the darkness to define their features. There was only one woman he could think of who would come down here and it didn't bode well. His mind flicked through every scenario he'd played out for such a moment, for what would set his wife free, especially given that his father, sister, and one who he could only presume was the executioner were now closing in toward them.

"Neither will I," came a young man's voice, growing closer from the hall. "Lord Tyrion, Lady Sansa, you have been pardoned and absolved of any connection to the death of King Joffrey," Tommen stated proudly, crossing to his uncle.

Margaery darted into the room beside him, going immediately to her friend. "Sansa, sweet girl, can you stand?" she asked, concern as plain on her face as it had been the day they'd met and she'd seen the bruises. Reaching a hand for her, she offered assistance.

Weakly, she nodded, rising to her feet unsteadily. "I don't know that I'll be able to walk far," she admitted.

Agreeing with that much, she turned back to the men she'd come with. "Ser Jaime, would you be so kind?" Margaery prompted.

Jaime lifted Sansa into his arms effortlessly. "Hold on to me," he said, adjusting his grip. From the angle at which he held her, there was no denying his suspicions about her condition any further and his anger at Cersei grew. However, Sansa herself didn't seem to move protectively as many women did. He had to wonder if she was even aware of it herself. The group moved to exit the dungeons.

"What's this about?" Tyrion asked, baffled by the swift change.

Tommen slammed the door behind them, the torchlight of the hall allowing him to truly see for the first time how poorly they'd been treated. Both his uncle and Sansa were wearing the clothes they'd worn for the wedding, now filthy and tattered. Tyrion looked desperately tired; the bags under his eyes dark and puffy. His beard had grown in full and his curls untamed. Her hair hung limp and visibly oily. Sansa's normally vibrant face was sullen and gaunt. Dirt caked their nails. As far as he was aware, prisoners were given meals and baths. Prisoners were human beings, were they not? How had it happened that somehow they were obviously not afforded even that much? True, the crimes of which they were accused were among the highest punishable, but they were also his family. The thought sickened him. "We knew you were innocent weeks ago," he growled. "The Queen Regent and Hand of the King insisted that you had taken off for Casterly Rock, not wanting to stay in the city that turned on you for another minute." He couldn't allow himself any more familiarity until he'd gotten the full story. The mere thought of calling them Mother and Grandfather caused his stomach to twist and lurch. He knew that, as King, it would come to him to pass judgment on them and, in order to do so, he had to try to distance himself from their connection to him. Tommen had vowed to himself when he saw what type of man Joffrey was turning out to be, that he would only be fair and just. Only, he hadn't expected to have to prove it to himself so early.

"Would that that were true," he mused, eyes not leaving Sansa for a moment.

They walked through the residence easily, and returned to their chambers, untouched since they'd left. Jaime rested Sansa on the settee and quickly retreated in search of a maester. Margaery went off similarly to fetch her handmaidens to draw them baths and bring dinner for them all. Tommen stayed with the couple to hear the whole story. Gradually, the room became a hub of frantic activity. One maester became three. Two handmaidens became six. Tommen had sent Jaime out once more to call for two men to guard the door at all times until the matter was completely settled.

Tyrion became agitated every time he was asked to leave Sansa's side, which thoroughly amused Jaime. The maesters insisted upon examining the couple individually before they would allow them to bathe. Tyrion was given an almost clean bill of health immediately. They warned him that he needed sleep and nourishment, but all in all, he was well enough. Sansa, on the other hand, was much worse for wear. They took their time with her, treated her gently and asked her very quiet questions that Tyrion strained to hear. She seemed not to believe whatever they were telling her. Jaime nearly threw him into the tub, chiding him for his scent and appearance gently. Although he didn't appreciate the manhandling, once Tyrion let the hot water envelop him, he welcomed the bath readily.

The maesters took measurement after measurement of Sansa's health, from her pulse to her reflexes and everything under the sun, she thought. Half of it didn't make much sense to her, but she presumed that was the way with maesters. As long as they didn't suggest that she take anything to help her sleep, she supposed she didn't mind.

There was one question, however, she hadn't expected. One that explained so much. Immediately, the maesters' fears subsided and they had a course of action, much of it was wait and see. Sansa, however, filled with anxiety. She was going to be a mother and she had spent the better part of the last two months in a dungeon with no sunlight and, until the last week, living on bread and water. By their calculations, if she had made it to this point, it seemed likely that the baby would be fine, but given that she had some experience with moon tea, they insisted that she'd be kept under close watch and, at least for the time being, advised that she not tell a soul until they were more certain that her body would reacclimate to daily life. She doubted very much that she would be able to follow that advice, but she'd certainly think it over. Finally, they dismissed her to enjoy her bath as well and she did so gladly, sliding into the second tub the handmaidens had brought in. As one of them worked at her hair, she silently wondered if Shae was alright, wherever she'd wound up.

Eventually, when their dinner was brought and they'd been made comfortable, the five of them sat and spoke amiably. Sansa found herself sleepy rather quickly and excused herself to bed. Margaery didn't stay too much longer after that. When Tyrion decided that he, too, was going to retire, Jaime and Tommen moved to take their leave.

Troubled by his looming duties, Tommen snagged Jaime's sleeve quickly before he could open the door. "Ser Jaime, may I ask you a question?"

Jaime turned back and faced him. "Anything, Your Grace," he answered, brows furrowed.

"What should I do about Mother and Grandfather?" Jaime blinked at him a few times, floored by his son's turning to him for advice. Something he'd never thought possible. "I thought, perhaps, Grandfather could be offered the black, knowing that he'd be put to death otherwise," he said, but even as he did, he felt a strong inkling that that wouldn't work out.

"Understand how much it pains me to say this, but in that instance," Jaime said, voice low and serious, "you have to think of the repercussions with a man like The Hand of the King." He released a short burst of air through his nose. "He will do anything to survive. As long as he breathes, we'll all be in danger for taking him to task." Seeing the mounting pain in the boy's eyes and noting his silence, he knew that he was asking to be told. Even after everything that had happened, Jaime couldn't bring himself to tell anyone that his father should be put to death. There had to be a more delicate way. "If you are going to punish him," he started, mind whirring for a moment before landing on, "it will have to be final."

"And what of Mother?" the king asked, tears stinging the corner of his eyes as the phantom voice of his brother berated him for showing weakness.

Mulling it over for a moment, Jaime struggled with his gut instinct. "Can you stomach the thought of killing your own Mother? Even if it's justified? Will your sister ever forgive you for it?" He noted the worry in Tommen's eyes and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. "Sleep on it. Talk with your Queen about it." The boy's face softened at the mention of his wife, at which Jaime had to stifle a laugh; all three men in this room attached to their wives. What a thought! Still, he returned to the topic at hand. "Cersei's not going anywhere. If you decide that it's something you can live with, my advice for your Grandfather goes double for your Mother."

Tommen looked up at the man before him gratefully. "Thank you..." he trailed off and then made an impulsive decision to claim what he'd never done before, what drove him to seek Jaime's advice in the first place, "Father."

Father.

The nearly whispered word echoed between them for what felt like days.

Father.

The floor dropped out from beneath Jaime as the title he'd never thought he'd hear any of his children use.

Father.

His eyes flickered over the boy's face for any hint of malice, any inclination that he was going to use it against him and instantly folded, looking in those hopeful green eyes that mirrored his own. He wrapped the boy in his arms tightly for the first time. "Oh, my boy. My son. You're welcome, Tommen." The younger clung just as tightly as the older, shocked by how easily he'd accepted and acknowledged him.

In short order, both Cersei and Tywin were assigned men to guard their doors, should they get the inkling to flee whilst their fates were to be decided.

The following morning, Jaime came back to check on Tyrion and Sansa just after he broke his fast. Tyrion verified that it was Jaime, then let him in quickly. He led his brother out to the balcony so as not to disturb the still-sleeping Sansa. Jaime talked him through the overnight developments, then asked, "If you had your way, what would you see done with them?"

Tyrion considered the question briefly. Every scenario found itself darker and more sinister than the last, but all ending with the same outcome: Cersei and Tywin in unmarked graves. He thought better of actually mentioning it and took a deep breath to cleanse himself of the suggestion. "There's a reason we have laws to dictate punishment and don't ask people that. Watching my wife deteriorate before my eyes..." He couldn't allow himself to voice his fears so freshly absolved. "And then to find out that it was for nothing and we should have been free six weeks ago? No, it's best that you don't ask me."

"Would you want them executed?" Jaime asked, seeing right through his facade.

He stumbled over his words, trying to maintain a modicum of his carefully crafted diplomacy. "It's not about what I want. Want is not justice." He paused for a moment, then added, "What I would want is vengeance. That's not the same thing."

"I'll take that as a yes, then?" he said, keeping his tone as even as he could when the fact that he was asking whether or not their sister and father's lives should end soon. He knew well that Tyrion's experience might land him with a much stronger opinion.

The younger Lannister scoffed, "Of course, it's a yes." He looked at his folded hands and found himself once again saddened by it all. "I could almost do it myself if the circumstances were even slightly worse."

Jaime clasped his hand over his brother's firmly. "But they're not," he assured, "And I think Tommen is going to act swiftly and, perhaps, finally."

"Is he?" Tyrion asked, trying to sound as objective as he could manage.

"He wants to be firm, but fair." Jaime smiled a little, thinking about their conversation the night prior. "He's going to be... different."

Tyrion nodded, pressing his lips out, impressed. "Good. We need different." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "The kingdom needs different."

Dropping his elbows to his knees, leaning forward, he mused, "Then where does that leave people like us?"

That was certainly a thought. Neither of them had ever served a good and honest realm. Neither of them had ever seen a good and honest realm. Perhaps it would be that there was no place for them. Tyrion didn't think so, however. He wondered how different circumstances might affect the realm, then finally settled on his answer. "Striving to do better, I suppose."

Jaime sat silently, taking his brother's words to heart. Could he really be better? If he could, he would imagine it could only be then. If he could ever manage another adaptation to the new Jaime, it would have to be then. "Alright, well," he said, rising to his feet, "get some rest, little brother. I just wanted to keep you updated."

Following him to the door, Tyrion reached to shake his brother's hand. "Thank you, Jaime. For everything."

All he could do was shake his head. In Jaime's mind, he hadn't done anything worth thanking.

From his talk with Tyrion, Jaime moved on to check in with Tommen. He found him in his study, pouring over a particularly large volume, one Jaime recognized as Lives of Four Kings and smiled to himself. Definitely different. When he finally made his presence known, the men talked briefly about the book. Then, once they'd both been poured a cup of pomegranate juice, Tommen admitted that he'd made up his mind.

"Is this really what you want?" Jaime asked.

Tommen leaned back in his chair, tentatively shifting his weight. "Isn't false imprisonment of two members of the Royal Family treason?"

"Yes, but, Your Grace," he added, not meaning to dissuade him, but just to make sure he'd thought it through, "they are both members of the Royal Family, as well."

"Do you think I don't know that?" the King snapped, surprising them both with his tone. Immediately, Tommen leaned forward, rubbing his brow. "I'm sorry. What I mean to say is that if they were any other Lord and Lady in the realm and had wrongfully imprisoned the King's Uncle, the sitting Master of Coin, and his wife, would I not be expected to have them executed?" He made eye contact with Jaime and immediately looked away. "You told me to sleep on it and I have. Treason has been handled this way all along. You were right. I can't just let them be. What sort of king would that make me?" He sighed, resting his cheek on the desk. "I can't be lenient because we'll all be in the line of fire. Lady Cersei won't rest until Uncle Tyrion and Aunt Sansa are dead." He thought it over once more for a moment and knew he was right. "I can't bring myself to believe she'd harm me, but it's not me I'm worried about. Lord Tywin will bring all Seven Hells to make sure we know what we've done by turning against him." He thought about it, then shook his head, realizing that he wasn't even sure they wouldn't harm him. He wasn't truly sure of anything. "I am the king and I cannot afford to be looking over my shoulder to see what sort of destruction may be looking to overtake me because I chose to go easy on my family rather than treat people objectively."

Impressed with how thoroughly he appeared to have considered it, Jaime nodded, taking a sip of his wine.. "That is very wise."

"Well, I've had more than enough examples of how not to rule. I won't be as foolhardy as King Robert," Jaime nodded carefully, still unsure how to tread on such territory. "I am not my brother, that much is damned sure." Tommen lifted his head to look the older man straight in the eye. "And I'll have Uncle Tyrion as my hand and you as Lord Commander, and Margaery by my side to make sure that I don't get any untoward ideas." The corner of the King's mouth twitched upward into a crooked smile, then fell immediately as he waited to see if he would catch the words.

It took a while for Jaime's brain to catch up with his ears, but he did eventually. "Lord Commander?" he asked, flattered by the offer, but unsure of whether he could do so, especially knowing Brienne would, eventually, make her way to King's Landing.

"The position is yours, if you'll have it," the king said, smiling.

Truthfully, Jaime hadn't given the matter of what he was going to do upon his return much thought. He hadn't actually intended to return until meeting Podrick. Once he'd arrived, he found himself wrapped up in the shambles of his family and hadn't really stopped to plan his next move. Bad form, he knew, but he was more concerned with what the hell had happened. Now, he was conflicted. "I'd be happy to, but I have broken my oath to the Kingsguard while I was captured. I don't believe that such honorifics are in order anymore."

"How so?" he asked, genuinely interested in what he could have done that would deem him unworthy of the Kingsguard.

Straightening his shoulders, Jaime fought off the smile that overtook him every time he thought of his Knightly Wife. "Not to wed," he said, trying to avoid his son's eyes, realizing that that might be a more difficult topic to broach now that Tommen had claimed him.

Nevertheless, the young king smiled broadly. "Is that so?" He considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I believe that, since I was willing to overlook certain other parts of your vows, it's only fair that I overlook that as well. Perhaps, once you're settled, we'll look into ways to change the vows to omit that part entirely."

Tommen leaned forward confidentially. "Many of those vows imply personal sacrifice that I don't want looming over me."

Lifting his right hand to demonstrate his other hesitance, he grimaced. "And my mangled sword hand won't prove to be an issue?" In reality, when the man who'd been on guard that night decided that Jaime would be less of a threat without use of his sword hand, he'd expected to lose it entirely. At least that way, he wouldn't have to explain it every time someone expected him to be the same Jaime Lannister he'd always been. To have the man knock him out and crush every bone within it was something else entirely. When nearly six months had passed and he still couldn't move it, Jaime had just about lost hope of regaining the dexterity. He supposed it was poetic, really, that the same circumstances that truly changed him as a man would change his identity so strongly as well. Many people said they were a "new man" after minor events. He supposed he really was.

"Are you training with your left?" Tommen asked.

"Of course, your grace, and I always have to some extent, but it is certainly not what one would hope of their Lord Commander," he said, ashamed that he truly couldn't do the one thing that had always been what he was good at.

Tommen seemed nonplussed by that. "What I hope of my Lord Commander is to care for my well being and those in my family and best plan for their safety. You don't need to be on the front line for that. Or perhaps we look into a different weapon, maybe a lighter sword or something different entirely." The boy didn't seem capable of taking no for an answer. "I would never ask something of you that I didn't know in my heart you could do," he said, voice gentle and sweet. "From what I've heard, you have quite the tactical mind, as well. I have more respect for you than I've ever been allowed to show. I'd like to prove that to you if you'd let me."

Jaime was quiet at that. He'd never have expected to hear something so kind that didn't seem manipulative. People had congratulated him on his ferocity and bravery all his life. Women had complimented his looks and fought for his favor in tourneys. Obviously, Tommen was asking something of him, but his statement was so heartfelt, Jaime couldn't help but be moved by it. Picking his jaw up off the floor, he made his decision. "Then, I would be honored, Your Grace."

The separate trials of Tywin and Cersei had been small, expedient, and private. There was no courtly circus. Just the Small Council and three trusted, impartial judges. Tommen had done his best to make it as painless for all involved, even offering for Tyrion and Sansa to be questioned together or without either of the accused present if they so chose. Sansa had been sorely tempted to take him up on his offer but knew that it was more important that she held her head high and do what needed to be done. If not for herself, then for the child she could have lost at the hands of their mistreatment. By week's end, all was ready and each preceding took merely a day.

The execution took place the following day at dawn. Tommen, again, chose not to make a spectacle of the ordeal, as had been so common in the latest examples. Instead, they were brought to a shared cell. Despite not wanting an audience, he had extended an offer of attendance to Margaery, Jaime, Tyrion, and Sansa. All but Tyrion had declined. Both of the ladies stated that they hadn't the stomach for it. In truth, he had expected as much. They'd experienced a great deal of loss at the hand of Lannisters and it was more than understandable that their own raw, personal losses would prevent them from attending. He, too, understood Jaime's choice. It was a lot to ask of him and he didn't feel confident enough in their fledgling relationship to press him on the matter, even though he had so hoped that he would stand by his side. Still, his words ran through his mind the whole time, enough that he could remind himself that he was making the right decision.

When the time came, Tommen, Tyrion and the executioner stood before the guilty parties. "Lord Tywin of House Lannister, Lady Cersei of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, you stand before us guilty of treason, false imprisonment with the intent of death for two members of the royal family," the young monarch stated, voice intentionally distant. He could spare no warmth for them. "Do you deny it?"

"No, Your Grace," they answered unanimously.

Tommen took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. "The punishment for your crimes is death by beheading. Is that understood?"

While Tywin signaled the affirmative, appreciating the strength of the boy's actions, in true Cersei fashion, the woman would not go down without a fight. "No, Your Grace."

"Which part needs clarification?" he asked.

She put on her most hurt, innocent face and it turned Tyrion's stomach. He'd seen her use this manipulation tactic on every man she'd ever met and they usually fell for it. Cersei would feign a wound so deep that everyone around would grant her her way. "How you could have your own mother brought to the sword?" she simpered.

Unmoved and rather perturbed by the continued insinuation of her innocense, Tommen simply asked, "Is that not what you were trying to do to your own brother?"

"That thing is not my brother," she hissed. Tyrion didn't even feel the familiar sting at her words. He should have recoiled. He should have lashed out. Somehow, he managed only to release a deep push of breath through his nose. Of course, that would be her response. Of course.

The King's heart broke. Until that point, he'd managed to hold on to the naive hope that his mother would, at the very least, show some remorse at this point. Even a recognition that what she had done was wrong would have helped him maintain some image of his mother that was untainted by the hateful, ruthless woman he'd uncovered recently. "Do you have anything left to say?"

Tywin shot Cersei a pointed glare, before they both answered again, "No, Your Grace."

Turning to his uncle, he asked gently, "Lord Tyrion, before we begin, do you have any words for the guilty?"

He'd been thinking about it all night. He'd asked Sansa what she would ask or say. She'd given him a puzzling answer about how she would only want five minutes alone with Cersei, to speak with her woman to woman. When he tried to suss out more details, she'd simply kissed him and said he would understand eventually. So there he stood, swallowing his anger and trying to speak evenly. "In your grief, I would have understood. In your hatred for me, I would have understood. Why Sansa?" he asked his sister

"She is the one thing in this world that makes you truly happy," she said, smiling wickedly.

He took a step closer to her, lowering his voice every time he wanted, instead, to scream. "Your son tortured her. Battered her. Raped her. Repeatedly from the day she was betrothed to him." Cersei shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Tyrion knew that she had experienced some of that at King Robert's hand and he would have expected some sense of solidarity for a woman in a similar position. "You knew. You cannot say you didn't. How could you have let that occur?"

"Sansa Stark is of no consequence to me. She never has been," the woman said.

"She is to me," Tyrion said, watching the woman carefully

Cersei gritted her teeth and stared him down. "May that be her undoing," she responded, something deeply malicious in her tone that Tyrion couldn't quite place. If he could have read her mind, he'd have heard her screaming that she hoped beyond all hope that the babe that grew in his wife's womb would tear her apart and leave him as truly devastated as his birth had left their family.

Without such powers, Tyrion could do nothing more than admit defeat in his quest to understand his sister. His mind could not allow him to say the affirmation that it was undoubtedly her own undoing. He wasn't particularly of the mind for such japes. Instead of pushing her further, he turned to his father, offering first one word.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Tywin asked, looking much older than Tyrion had ever imagined he could. Even more than he had just a day prior.

Eyes narrowing in thought, Tyrion scrutinized his father for a moment, choosing his words wisely. "Our deaths would end all hope of our family name. Your legacy. Everything you've worked for, gone." No reaction, just the tired, shallow breaths of a condemned man. It chilled him. His father had always been a calculated man, but this was something else. The vacant resignation on his face was startling. Still, Tyrion had to know. "My death has been in her plan since the day I was born. You told me once that you had every intention of letting the sea claim me as an infant. Still, you didn't, because no matter what, I am your son. My life has to be more valuable to you than the satisfaction my death would bring. So, why?" he asked.

Tywin shook his head. "Jaime would have forsaken his oaths had I insisted hard enough." He gave a sharp laugh. "Even now, he's forsaken them willingly, without my pressure."

With his ability to resist the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes dwindling, he tried to ignore the fact that, even now, he was being overlooked. "You didn't even know he was alive. So, why?" he asked again.

"Anything would be better than your continued existence," he said, nearly a sigh. "I made a mistake in letting you live as long as you have. I should have known that it would come to this." Tyrion's shoulders sagged a little, realizing how little stock he'd truly put in his father's hatred of him. He'd always expected that, somewhere deep within him, there lived some acknowledgment of his worth. "When I saw the way the simpering little fool worships you, how you gave each other the strength to get through the wedding, I knew it was over. Something had to be done before she presented you with a son."

"No." He shook his head, willing himself not to cry. In his peripheral, he could see that Tommen had turned away, presumably for a similar reason. "No, that's not it. You have never been reactive or short-sighted."

A brusque laugh escaped Tywin's pursed lips, as though baffled that Tyrion couldn't wrap his head around it. "If this child she would bear you turns out like you?" he scoffed. "What good is it for my dynasty to have two creatures? I would rather my lineage die with you than suffer any further humiliation at your hand."

There it was. Tyrion gave a somber nod. That was the answer he'd been expecting. "Thank you," he said, stepping back slowly. "For your honesty." It wasn't an easy thing to hear, but he had needed to hear it. There was nothing he could ever have done to win his father's approval. On some level, he'd always known, but now it was out in the world in no uncertain terms.

Exchanging a subtle nod with the King, it was time for the punishment. The executioner stepped forward alongside the young man. "I, Tommen of House Baratheon, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of the Andals and the First Men, do hereby sentence you to die." He paused for a moment, looking from his mother to his grandfather. "May the Gods have mercy on your souls."

The Executioner moved first to Tywin, who accepted his fate freely, the weight of his admission lifted from his chest. He knelt and before he could close his eyes, it was over. Tommen didn't flinch or look away, steeled in his decision by the man's words. Tyrion winced after, attempting to calm his racing heart.

Turning to the woman, the hooded figure motioned for her to kneel. Instead, she backed up. Tyrion could see that her mouth was moving but couldn't make out the words through the pounding of the blood in his ears. She was forced to the block. He willed himself to push back into the moment. "Tommen," he could hear her beg. "Tommen, please." Her anguished cries were silenced by the same metallic clank as her father.

Neither uncle nor nephew were sure what to do now. The executioner called through the door for it to be unlocked, that they were through, and the men poured out into the hallway. Wordlessly, they returned to their chambers, sharing a silent hug as they parted ways.

Upon his return, Tyrion kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, running his fingers through Sansa's hair, finding it back to its usual soft shiny state. He whispered gently, mainly for his own benefit. "Sansa. My wife, my love," he started, corners of his mouth twitching upwards as the reality began to sink in. They were together in their own bed and all those who would seek to harm them were no longer an issue. "It's over now. They're gone. They are truly gone," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "We are safe," he admitted to himself. "I don't know what I did to deserve your attention, but maybe, just maybe, the Gods aren't that cruel. Maybe. What I do know is that I love you. More than I meant to." He watched her sleep, truly relaxed for the first time, perhaps, in his life.

"Tyrion..." she breathed, stirring awake a short while later and reaching for him.

Guiding her hands to him, he simply stated, "I'm here, Sansa," running his thumb gently over her knuckles.

"I know," she said with a smile, looking up at him calmly. "You have scarcely left my side." She could see the toll that morning had taken on him and decided not to ask until he was ready to share. She decided instead to simply say, "I love you."

"I won't hold you to any of that, Sansa," he said, trying to give her time to take it back, but hoping desperately that she wouldn't. "You were scared and sick."

Sansa leaned up and gave him a slow, languid kiss. "I love you," she repeated. She watched the recognition appear on his face and smiled. "Scared and sick or healthy and safe." She trailed her thumb through the still dense whiskers on his chin, secretly grateful that he hadn't decided to shave them all off when they were freed. In her mind, it made him look more fatherly, even if he didn't know yet. "I have been trying to tell you for ages but couldn't find the words," she said, knowing that those words were the next she'd have to find.


	16. Chapter 14

A few days later, when the dust had settled, life in the Red Keep had begun to feel more normal, or, as Sansa had noted to Tyrion as they lay in bed the night before, as normal as it could ever seem when they no longer had to feel as though they were walking on eggshells.

Sansa sat crosslegged on a footstool just inside the door to the balcony, enjoying the sunlight and stitching a bright red lion into the corner of a soft, golden swaddling cloth. Every pass of the needle carried with it so many hopes and dreams Sansa had for the babe that would someday be wrapped within. It was silly, she thought, but she hoped that she could imbue the fabric with the love she already had for their child and the love she knew Tyrion would have for them as well.

When a knock came on the door, Sansa straightened herself and arose, still feeling some stiffness in her joints from inactivity. She laid down the needlework on the arm of the settee and moved to open the door, glad that she could do so freely now.

"My Lady, I'm glad to see you well," Jaime said, grasping her shoulder gently.

Welcoming him into the room, she gave a gentle reminder. "Ser Jaime, we're family. I believe, by now, I've told you a hundred times that you can call me Sansa."

He smiled warmly. "Then Jaime shall suffice as well, Sansa." Following Sansa's cues, he moved to sit at the table with her. "Is my brother in?"

"No, in his study, I'm afraid." She laughed a little, despite herself, remembering the way he'd bolted from the room that morning.

Jaime was shocked. "The king made him return so soon after..." He struggled to pinpoint just one thing to end that sentence with. Luckily, Sansa didn't see the need for him to finish the sentence.

"Oh, no. King Tommen told him to take all the time he needed to see to me and to his own well being before even thinking about taking up his duties as Hand. Tyrion chose to make himself scarce," she corrected, reaching to pat her good brother's hand comfortingly.

"Is something the matter?" he asked.

Without hesitation, she answered, "No. Sometimes, he seems to startle if I get too close." She blushed, looking at her hands folded in her lap. "I told him I love him and I think his heart stopped." It would have saddened her if the whole thing hadn't been so heartwarming. She couldn't grant herself the permission to be disappointed that he had seemed so flustered and scared when he was so unrelentingly adorable. Ever since they had been freed, she found herself overwhelmed with affection for him. She couldn't bear to waste a moment of their time. Still, she knew that he operated differently than she did and she would do her best not to worry. It wasn't like when he'd been avoiding her, she thought, but more like he was afraid of everything falling apart. Until she could manage to calm him, the only thing she could think to do was to remain steadfast in herself and that he would see that she wasn't going anywhere. She inched her hands back to rest at the base of her stomach and reminded herself- that they weren't going anywhere.

Considering the situation for a moment, Jaime asked, "Because you're still a few years off from your mark?"

"That's all I can surmise," she answered, "I may not know what the Gods have in store, but I know that I love him." Sansa appreciated Jaime's soft smile at her admission. He cared so much for his brother and hearing her say that she loved him pleased him greatly. She continued, "I don't know anyone who met their soulmate before they saw their words, now, so I don't know who to ask if what I'm feeling is any indication. I don't mean to sound callous, and I know the situation is tricky, but even when I first met Joffrey, I felt nothing." She wished so desperately that she could ask her mother's opinion, knowing that she didn't receive her mark until years after marrying her father. These days, she found herself with so many questions that, it seemed, only her mother could answer. Nevertheless, she eyed Jaime carefully, trying to tread lightly over the topic of the late King. She didn't feel comfortable enough with him to give details if he asked but knew that, despite insisting that their punishments had been fair, knew that the man had suffered great losses of late. "The first time I saw Tyrion, though, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. When your party rode into Winterfell that day, I could focus on nothing but him. I was drawn to him. Every time we were near each other, I found myself watching him, wondering where he was always heading off to. But at the same time, it was as though I was being held back; told not yet. It's not your turn yet."

"That sounds like a strong indication to me," he said. Truthfully, he'd spent so long avoiding the matter as a member of the Kingsguard, he didn't listen much when people spoke of their soulmate. There wasn't anything he could say to help her.

Sansa chuckled at the absurdity of it all. "But he's so convinced that I could never want him, let alone love him."

"You don't think he believes you?" he asked, a little doubtful that anyone, even his self-loathing little brother could ignore how in love with her husband the woman was.

"I know he doesn't. His exact words, in reference to the first time I said it, were 'I won't hold you to any of that, Sansa. You were scared and sick.'" She shook her head. Neither of those things were particularly untrue, but that didn't change the fact that she meant them.

Jaime narrowed his eyes in disbelief. "The first time you said it to him was in the dungeons?" From what he'd seen when he arrived and the stories he'd been told, they may as well have been married for ages. And she'd only just said it?

Blushing, Sansa explained. "I thought we were going to die down there and I couldn't... I couldn't die without him knowing. It wasn't the first time I'd tried. He just wouldn't hear it before then." She absently ran her thumb over the small swell of her stomach, wondering if anyone had noticed. Tyrion certainly hadn't said anything.

"At first, I hadn't identified that that's what it was. Then, every time I tried, he would cut me off or tell me not to say it because he didn't want me to say it if I didn't mean it." Jaime laughed, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that that was true. "I think I moved too quickly for him to process. When we finally reached a certain point, he pulled away and started avoiding me for a week. I had to nearly lock him in a room to make him understand that he had in no way, shape, or form made rushed me." Had that really been three months earlier?

"Have you told him of your condition?" Sansa's head snapped up to meet Jaime's gaze. "Forgive me for being indelicate, but I am a father of three." His eyes flicked down to her hands, still resting on her stomach, and then back up. "I had suspected it the first time I clapped eyes on you, but when I carried you out of that cell, I knew."

She spluttered, knowing that there was no avoiding it now. "The maesters told me not to yet. Since I'm still recovering, they fear..." She trailed off. Spontaneous termination was the phrase they'd used and she didn't even want to think about it. She was not going to let that happen. She would do everything in her power to make sure that it didn't. "They think that perhaps it would be best to keep it to myself until they're sure my body can handle it. Between the malnutrition and illness and a few previous herbal remedies, I'm still to be scrutinized constantly for the next few weeks." Jaime gave her a sympathetic nod but stayed silent. "It came up in the trial, so a few people know, but, no. I haven't told Tyrion yet." She reached across the table for Jaime's hand and steeled her gaze on him. "They say that if you hadn't started sneaking us real food when you did, things could have been so much worse. I'll be forever grateful to you. We owe you an immense debt and..."

Grasping her hand tighter, Jaime interrupted her. "Don't say it." He knew where she was going and the thought of hearing her use that phrase, after everything she'd experienced at the hands of the Lannisters, himself included, wouldn't be right. "I don't ever want to hear those words from you, do you understand?"

Nodding, Sansa withdrew her hand. "Alright, then." She took a deep breath, grateful to have someone she could talk to about certain things, now, at least until she figured out how to tell Tyrion. "Apparently, if I had realized, the maesters suspect that the gaelors would have been more mindful of me. Do you think that's the case?"

That was something that Jaime had wondered as well. "If there's one thing that mattered to Cersei, it would be her children. But, if there's one thing that didn't," he countered, "it would be Tyrion and, by extension, I would wager you and yours. I don't know if one would have outweighed the other." He fell silent, playing out the scene in his head."Truthfully, she may have spared you, at least until the child was born, but if I were a betting man, I'd say it would have cost Tyrion his life. She'd have..."

"She'd have told him that she'd spare my life in exchange for his. Even after we'd been cleared." Sansa agreed. That was the outcome she saw as well. "She'd have done it just to be rid of him."

"You know her well," Jaime assessed.

Leaning back in her chair, she sighed, trying to carefully choose her words. "Cersei was manipulative, that's true. But, loathe though I am to say it, I believe she was always honest with me. She knew that the truth worked better on me. She knew I wouldn't have believed her if she'd lied; that her darling son had shattered my belief in fairytales. But the facts were what they were. And they left me hopeless." She wrapped her arms around herself protectively. "She stripped me of the belief that any of this was possible as much as Joffrey stripped me of my dignity time and time again. Cersei knew that the truth was more horrifying than anything she could invent." Jaime sniffed, shifting uncomfortably, suddenly realizing that, perhaps, Joffrey was even worse than he'd imagined. Truthfully, he didn't want to know.

The idea that, it seemed, Cersei was aware of the magnitude of his cruelty shocked him. He harbored no pretty dreams that the woman wasn't as destructive as all of that. That didn't change the fact that he'd hoped for some sliver, some spark of humanity. He looked down at the table, ashamed of himself for having a role in any part of it. Sansa noticed his demeanor change and immediately stopped, knowing too well the impact of exposure to a constant stream of hatred of one's family. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset..."

"No, no, Sansa. It's alright. You're not telling me anything I didn't already know about them," he assured.

She shook her head sadly. Sansa could not allow herself to speak of the Lannisters to Jaime the way they'd spoken of the Starks to her. "Still, it's not right. It's not fair to you. No matter how they treated me... He was your son. They were your family."

Expression softening, he sought to remind her of something else. "So is Tyrion. So, now, are you. And, so will the child that grows inside of you be." They both smiled at that. The prospect of a new life in the wake of so much loss. "It is none of my business, I know, but if I were him, I would be devastated if something happened and I wasn't made aware. Tyrion and I both operate similarly in that aspect. We like to know things. That's his prerogative. He drinks and he knows things." The woman laughed at his very clear picture of her husband. Even still, for someone who knows things, he could be infuriatingly blind. "Even just for yourself, Sansa. If you have any attachment to this child, which it seems more than clear that you do, how much harder will it be for you if something were to go wrong and the only person who could possibly understand, the one person you would want to have by your side, didn't know." Jaime watched as she took his words to heart. She clearly hadn't been entertaining the thought that something could still go wrong and it jarred her. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I shouldn't have-"

"No, you're right. I just don't know how to tell him," she confessed.

"That's the easy part," Jaime said. "You'll think of something. If all else fails..." he gave her a few helpful hints before he left in search of Tyrion. He searched the residence high and low for him. His study was vacant. So, too, was the library. The wine cellar was abandoned. None of the kitchen help had seen him. He even ventured back down to the cells to see if he was moping about, trying to piece together some mystery he'd come up with. Coming up empty, he decided to make a quick trip around the gardens, in case he'd decided to take in some sunshine.

As Jaime reached the end of a path, he saw a small figure sprawled on a bench under a sparse willow tree, lost in whichever tome he'd brought with him. Of course. "I know you enjoy your books, little brother, but you have a beautiful woman in your chambers who, by all accounts, you seem to love who seems very much in love with you, and with whom you have recently shared a trying experience. What, pray tell, are you doing so very far away from her?" he said rather loudly as he approached.

Tyrion didn't bother to look up, knowing his brother's voice as well as his own. "Giving her room to breathe. I fear I'm clouding her judgment," he said dismissively.

"Clouding her judgment?" the older Lannister asked. "Tyrion, are you mad? Are you ill? Or are you very, very stupid?" He nudged his brother's foot to force him to sit up so that he could sit beside him.

Gently irritated, he rested his book open flat on his lap and rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes slowly adjusting their focus. "If you have a point you are ambling toward, please make it."

He shoved against his brother's shoulder with his own. "My point, you miserable shit, is that you and your wife are alive. You've spent two months abandoned in a rotting cell and made it out. Celebrate." He rolled his eyes. "If all you want to do all day is read in the sun, I'm sure she wouldn't mind being included."

"She said she loves me," he responded, as though that explained everything.

It explained nothing. "So I've heard. Congratulations, your wife loves you." "Many men in our positions do not find themselves so lucky."

Tyrion sighed, leaning forward and rubbing his eyes in frustration. "She said it because she was scared of dying." He looked up at his brother flippantly. "That was the only reason."

"Only reason?" Jaime balked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. No, actually, he could, but he really didn't want to. "Have you not seen the way she looks at you? She adores you. She's terrified of failing you." He tousled his brother's hair teasingly. "Even if, in some years' time, someone else's words appear on her flesh, does that lessen her love?"

He scoffed. Truly, Tyrion didn't understand how Jaime could be so cavalier about it all. "If she leaves to be with them? Yes."

"Sansa doesn't strike me as the type," he said knowingly.

Growing less and less patient with his brother's prodding, he turned to face him. "I don't want her to be with me out of some sense of duty. After everything she's been through, she deserves only the best." And that best, Tyrion thought, is someone who is not me.

Jaime furrowed his brow and bunched his lips out, prematurely betraying his pending sarcasm. Tyrion groaned. "How noble." Jaime nodded, swiping the book from his brother's lap. "How selfless." He closed the volume with a smack. "How unbelievably stupid," he said, punctuating the last word with a sharp blow to his shoulder with the book.

Throwing his arms up to protect himself, Tyrion batted away a subsequent attempt. "Jaime, what is behind this?"

"You're alive. She's alive." He gestured between his brother and the Red Keep. "You're insufferably in love with her. She's disgustingly in love with you." He poked the younger man in the chest with the corner of the tome, then brought it up to smack his arm again. Thud. "Go." Tyrion stood, meaning to move away from Jaime's attacks. Whump. Instead, the book crashed against his hip. "Be happy." Thwap. His arm. "Go." Whack. His rear end, and Jaime following, repeating the gesture until he was no longer in the garden. He called after his brother. "You'll get this back the next time I see the two of you together and not a moment before."

Tyrion headed back into the Red Keep, trying not to focus on Jaime's insistence. Where he would have gotten the idea that Sansa was truly in love with him was a mystery, but he would rather not hear any more on the topic from his stupid older brother.

Sansa spent the majority of the rest of the day in bed. A knock came to the door shortly after midday and she bid the visitor enter. The queen did so anyway, climbing up into bed beside her friend gently, tucking her legs beneath her. They chatted happily about the goings-on of the Keep and what they'd been doing to keep themselves occupied of late.

"Married life suits you," Margaery said, poking her Sansa gently, noting the absence of flustered blush on her cheeks when they spoke of more delicate topics.

She smiled, patting the Queen's leg gently. "It certainly could have been worse."

A sad smile crossed the older woman's face. "Indeed. For both of us," she said, edging closer to her friend. The pair lapsed into silence for a moment before the topic of the wedding and Sansa and Tyrion's imprisonment came up. They shared their perspectives on what the smallfolk were apparently calling the Purple Wedding due to the color of Joffrey's face when he died. They spoke of the similarities between Joffrey's treatment of them and some of the glaring differences that left Margaery even more grateful for her grandmother's interference. Sansa listened intently to Margaery's tales of the aftermath. Likewise, Margaery's attention never once waivered as Sansa spoke of the time she and Tyrion spent locked in the dungeon.

Still deeply troubled by the injustice that had been carried out right under her nose, Margaery took her friend's hand, sidling up next to her. "Sansa, I'm sorry. I should have known."

That was something Sansa wasn't quite ready to hear. "How could you have?" she asked.

"It was too easy," Margaery said, shaking her head admonishingly. "Sent to Casterly Rock as reparation for the false accusations?" She admonished herself silently for having fallen for it. She had just hoped so that they would be able to get out of King's Landing and be happy.

She nudged her friend's shoulder gently with her own, resting her head on it. "I would have come to say goodbye to you."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry, Sansa. About the whole thing. I didn't know about the entertainment at the feast and the way he..." Now, knowing how much worse it could have been, how strong Sansa had been through it all, she clasped her hand tighter. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. With you and King Tommen, I believe the realm may have a chance. You are a born queen." Margaery smiled, hugging Sansa tightly.

Finally making his way to their quarters, Tyrion was glad to find Sansa awake and accompanied. "Your Grace, to what do we owe the pleasure?" he asked, moving to sit on the chest by the bed.

The girls separated quickly, laughing. "Just checking in on our dear girl here," she said, smoothing down Sansa's hair before rising to take her leave. She crossed to the man and patted his shoulder gently. "Take care of her, Lord Tyrion."

"As always, Your Grace," he said, bowing his head. He turned back to his wife, watching her carefully. "How are you feeling?" Though she seemed to be getting better slowly, she found herself frequently ill and still so weak.

"Better," she said, sitting up straighter and reaching her hand for him. "Come here." Tyrion didn't move, still seeming to want to avoid getting too close. "Please?" Sansa pouted a little, reaching as far as she could for him. She looked so helpless that he could no longer refuse. He sat at the edge of the bed, keeping his hand on her leg. "I had a visitor today," she said sweetly, reaching up to brush his dishevelled curls from in front of his eyes.

Tyrion laughed, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I'm aware. Do you think I didn't notice that there were two beautiful women in my bed when I arrived?"

She loosed a burst of laughter, swinging a pillow at him in objection. "Not Margaery. Jaime," she corrected.

Appreciating the rise his teasing got out of her, he continued. "Oh. Was he in the bed as well?" She tossed the pillow directly at him and he deflected it to the floor with a deflated thud. "Alright, I yield," he said, seeming insincere. Sansa grabbed a second pillow and tossed it at him, this time hitting him square in the chest. "I yield!" he laughed, throwing his hands up in defeat, not wishing to garner the same type of abuse from Sansa as he had from Jaime. "He visited with me as well. And our visit ended much the same as this one is now, except he chose a book as his weapon. Was he as persistent with you as he was with me?"

"Not exactly, I suppose. Nevertheless, your brother has a very strange way of getting people to open up to him," she admitted.

Undoing his vest, Tyrion stood up to hang it where it belonged. "I believe some would call those militaristic torture methods." He climbed back into the bed alongside his wife and wrapped her in his arms.

"No. No, he's just very brotherly," she said, realizing that that wasn't really a full answer. "I don't know how to describe it. He reminds me a lot of my own brothers in a lot of ways. Jon has this way of being unbelievably stupid one minute, to the point that you want to grab him by the hair and shake some sense into him. She laughed, remembering the day he told her he'd intended to take the black. How he said it was the noblest thing for a bastard to do. She'd nearly strangled him with her bare hands. "The next he'll say something very wise and you have to take a step back for a moment and wonder where he heard it because it couldn't possibly come from the man that was moping mere moments earlier."

Tyrion gave his best pout and replied, "Mopey men are wiser than people give them credit for."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "But I think what I'm seeing is much more like Robb. Robb was a good judge of character." Her eyes instinctively pricked with tears as she spoke. "The night of the feast, after you all went to bed, Arya and I stayed by the door to listen to Robb and father argue for hours about how the whole thing just didn't feel right to him, but especially me. He didn't trust Joffrey from the moment he clapped eyes on him. My father insisted that it didn't matter because 'Honor, honor, honor'. But you could hear how insistent Robb was about the whole thing." She slid down into her husband's arms and rested her head against his chest, pulling him to her tightly. "He saw something in Joffrey that no one else in my family did. He'd always been fiercely protective of me, but this was different. It wasn't just him watching out for his sister. He seemed frightened." She looked up at him, smiling. "I think Jaime's the same in a lot of ways. He's very intuitive and you can just see how much he cares. He loves you so much."

"What did you two talk about then?" he asked.

Sansa shrugged, unsure of how best to categorize their conversation. "Family. Love." She leaned up and kissed him. "You, mostly." She pulled back and sighed. "Cersei and Joffrey, some."

"What a terrifying thought," he said, voice tinged with sarcasm but still meaning it nevertheless.

"Why is that?" she asked.

He adjusted their positions to look her in the eye. "Think about it, Sansa. How can you reconcile the idea of loving me with a family like mine?"

She sat up and turned to face him fully. "Why do you think that all those many weeks ago I was reading about your family?" She cupped his jaw with her hand and smiled. "I love you and I grappled with that for a time, I did, but you are not them as much as I'm not Lysa Arryn who is, from what I hear, still nursing her teenage son and throwing people out the Moon Door." She laughed, realizing now how absurd that was. "I'm not my father, who somehow, in all his talk of honor, managed to come home with an illegitimate son." She gave a small smile, hoping he'd pick up on all her talk of children. "I can promise you that that will not be what our family is. I can also promise you that our family will not be my husband picking and choosing between which of our children he is going to love." Tyrion looked away for a moment, considering her statement, and she pressed another chaste kiss to his lips. "Although, I think our son will have a strong relationship with his uncle, and his cousin and his wife." Sansa let her hands fall to his chest. "I love you, Tyrion. That's how I can bridge the gap. Our family, starting now, is what matters."

"I love you, Sansa," he said, realizing that, maybe, she meant them after all.

Pushing herself up onto her knees, she moved closer to him, bringing his hands to her waist. "You're missing the point." She slowed her words a bit, letting him work through them on his own. "Our family." Her blue eyes bore into his soul, willing him to read her thoughts. "Ours." She took a deep breath and joined their hands, resting them first on his chest, "Yours," then hers, "and mine."

"Sansa..." he leaned forward, kissing her deeply.

Sansa could have screamed. She pulled back and rested her forehead against his. "For being a brilliant man, you can truly miss what's right in front of your handsome face, can't you?"

Laughing a bit at her frustration, he trailed his hands along her sides. "Apparently. Either that or I can't read you as well as I'd expected. Sansa," he leaned back, granting her another chance to explain what he was missing, "what are you getting at?"

Groaning, she flopped onto her back dramatically. "Nothing. Nothing at all," she said, covering her face in her hands. Sansa gave up trying to explain for that night.

The following morning, she penned a quick letter to take care of her failsafe plan but hoped that she'd be able to tell him before then. As the days passed and her letter received a small parcel in response, she decided that it made just as much sense as any to follow through with this plan. She called upon Jaime to escort her into town one afternoon to visit the baker on the Street of Flour whose wares they'd so enjoyed at the festival. When they returned to the Red Keep, she set out in search of Queen Margaery. She told her of her news, which had already been mentioned to her after the trial, further proving to Sansa that this had to be done quickly. They went over what she had planned for the end of the week and began to conspire on how to get it done.

When they awoke on the last morning of that week, Sansa had been excessively doting and Tyrion was none the wiser. She kissed him goodbye and told him to come back as quickly as he could that night. That afternoon, the baker's assistant brought her item to the Red Keep. She inspected it carefully and smiled, growing impatient for her husband to return.

She'd dressed a bright blue dress that clung to her curves, making obvious the growing bump at the base of her stomach, but still left plenty for him to unwrap for later. She enlisted the help of her handmaidens to procure some wine for her husband and some pomegranate juice for herself and to assist her in turning their chambers into something from a dream. When the Queen arrived, light fabrics and extra candles in hand and her handmaidens, each carrying a stack of items, in tow, the room burst into activity. The ladies laughed and joked, enjoying each other's company. Candles were set about everywhere, ready to be lit. Sheer curtains were wrapped around the baluster. The table and chairs were pushed to the side in favor of a myriad of furs, cushions, and pillows. A series of light knocks landed on the door, Jaime signaling that the Small Counsel had been dismissed and Tyrion would be back soon, sent the girls scurrying to wrap up all their loose ends. The candles were lit. The wine was poured. The cake was set out. One of her maids set to touching up Sansa's hair and spritzing her with perfume. And in a blink, they wished her luck and made their way out.

Sansa lowered herself into the chair by the table. When she heard her husband's uneven gait behind the door as he turned the knob, her breath hitched in her chest.

She rose, straightening her dress and stood squarely in front of the door, swaying a little impatiently, the way young girls do while waiting their turn.

Huffing a little, cursing the day, Tyrion finally managed to get into his room with his armful of scrolls. Seeing him struggle, Sansa took the items from his arms and placed them on the table. She turned back to him, chewing at her lip, then leaned forward to kiss him.

Tyrion hummed into the kiss, leaning back before punctuating each word with a soft peck. "Hello, my beautiful, wonderful, thoughtful wife." He let his hands trail down her arms as she stood back up straight and led him out to the balcony. "You are a sight for sore eyes and I am so glad to be done with this horrible day and home to you," he confessed, following her blindly.

"I am glad you're home," she said, stepping carefully backward and laughing to herself. She was buzzing with excitement, so much so that she was almost sure that Tyrion could feel her hands trembling.

"What do you have here?" he said, nodding to the small box from the bakeshop.

Sansa gestured for him to sit, then offered him the wine goblet. "That is for later, this is for now."

Taking the glass from her hands, he looked at her curiously. "Did you know that you are the perfect woman?" When his flattery was met with merely a pleased grin and a wring of her hands, he reached out a hand to get her to join him amid the cushions. "You said you had something important to talk about tonight?

"I do," she affirmed, setting herself directly across from him.

He glanced around, taking in all of the beautiful candles and textures, but wondered, "Why out here?"

"Tyrion, when we were talking about families, I mentioned the night I spent out here reading. With the wine and the..." she trailed off and blushed, knowing that she didn't have to continue. He knew well to which night she was referring. He set his goblet down and propped himself on his palms, giving her his undivided attention. "What I was trying to tell you is that I knew that night that I love you. I knew then. I tried to tell you, but all I could do was tell you all the things I was feeling and hope you could put them together." She crossed her legs and inched closer, placing her hands on his thighs. "My only regret in things happening in the way they did is that, when I finally managed to tell you, you believed it to be only under duress." She straightened up and smiled. "So, now, again all I could think to do was show you. I know you showed me."

Leaning forward and cupping her face in his hands, he confessed, "And I'll show you again and again," and kissed her gently to seal his promise. "But what is this about?"

She smiled, wondering if perhaps he'd forgotten. "Your nameday," she said with a laugh, bringing the bakery box to her lap for him to open.

Floored once again by his thoughtful wife, he stared at her in awe. In twenty-nine years, he'd never once had his nameday marked. In fact, for the twenty-eight prior, it had been used as a special sort of torment for him, a grim reminder of the wreckage his birth had left in its wake. "You know that? Sansa, I've never mentioned it."

In fact, he wasn't sure how she would have known.

With a coy smile, Sansa asked, "Do you know mine?" She'd never told him, but for some reason, she knew he would know it. She'd received only one nameday present last year and had suspected...

"Of course," he admitted, knowing it had passed just over a fortnight prior to their wedding, just before Joffrey's, but after the battle at Blackwater Bay. He'd sent Podrick with orders to fetch a plate of lemon cakes and a bouquet of pale blue and bright orange wildflowers from the garden and have Shae alone deliver them to her. It hadn't been much, but he didn't want to draw suspicion to himself and he certainly didn't want to put her in harm's way.

Sansa's smile broadened. "So, we are alive. We are both here for another name day. A month ago, we weren't sure we would be." She inched the parcel toward him, growing more and more nervous with each passing second. "Now, I didn't go all out for gifts. I did, however, send a raven to our niece who happens to have sent along a particular recipe and the ingredient that makes the ones from Dorne so special."

"Sansa, thank you," he said, moving to untie the string, now thoroughly pleased to know that the orange spiced cake lie within. "I mentioned that to you, what, the day after our wedding?"

She hummed her answer excitedly. "Mhm. Open it." Her hands began to shake a little as he began to undo the box's lid and she warned him, "We Northerners do tend to inscribe nameday cakes..."

"Happy Name Day Papa!" the confection read in delicate red and gold piping. A card in Sansa's script sat beside it. "Sorry to have missed this one. I promise I'll be there next time. Love, Baby Lion." Tyrion gaped at the words, suddenly unsure if he'd ever truly learned how to read. "Are you..." he looked up at his wife, beaming with pride but an air of uncertainty belying her happiness. She was clearly nervous to see his response. "Sansa?"

Biting her lip a little, she shrugged her shoulders, still waiting for his response. "Surprise?"

Tyrion's mind raced in a hundred directions. "That..." he began to say that it wasn't possible, but he could only recall her mentioning that she'd bled once, just after their wedding. He looked at her, eyes darting over her excitedly. "The wedding? The cells? The illness?" They'd been through so much, moreover, she'd been through so much. He wasn't sure how much of that could have affected her.

"Everything's fine," she assured, seeing the worry play at his brow. "The maesters didn't want me to tell you when I first found out because they were worried that I wasn't well enough to carry. But I'm well now and everything seems to be progressing smoothly."

His tension beginning to ease, Tyrion asked, "Does anyone else know?"

"Apart from the maesters? Yes," she said, realizing that a fair few people knew at this point. "It did come up in the trial, but truthfully, Jaime knew before. He said he knew as soon as he saw me, but was certain when he carried me from the dungeons." Her hands dropped to her stomach protectively, tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.

"He does have a particular gift where that is concerned," he laughed, putting the cake aside and inching himself closer to her. He moved his hands to hers and smiled, realizing that there was, indeed, a bump there.

Sansa watched his expression change to wonder, as though he hadn't thought it was possible. "Are you happy?" she asked.

"Happy cannot come close to explaining my feelings." He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Sansa, you're pregnant," he said, suddenly beaming as though the words made it real. He leaned forward, kissing her excitedly.

"I am," she said, grinning broadly into a second hurried kiss and noting that the tears had begun to fall. "By best calculations, almost four turns now."

His jaw hung slack. Four turns. He could scarcely believe it. "I sleep by your side every night. For two of those four months, I had a hand on you at practically every moment. How did I not notice?"

Shrugging, Sansa laughed. "There's wasn't much to notice. Given that neither of us ate much in those two months, it's a wonder I've gained any weight at all. You just didn't know to look." She lifted herself to her knees and smoothed her dress down, allowing him to see the slight roundness in her middle, the broadening of her hips, the fullness of her breasts. He took in the sight of her and raised similarly to his own knees, taking her hands in his.

Eyes welling with tears, he said, even louder, "We're going to be parents."

"We are," she said, unable to take her eyes off of her husband.

Tyrion reached his hands out again and pressed his hands to her belly once more, imagining the life within. "You have our child growing right here."

"I do," she confirmed, voice lilting with joy. She moved her hands to cover his. "Right here." He kissed her, intending for it to be gentle, but when she nearly knocked him over, overwhelmed with emotion, incapable of keeping herself in check.


	17. Chapter 15

Before long, their days began to draw a routine. Tyrion would leave early to work in the morning, come back and take his midday meal with Sansa. They'd go to court. They'd go for a walk. They'd take their evening meal. They'd visit with Margaery and Tommen, or Jaime. They'd return and ready for bed.

Very quickly, Tyrion began growing more and more protective of his wife. He felt helpless, detached from the process, and terribly guilty about it. He responded to those feelings in the only way he could, by doting upon her. As they took their stroll in the garden one afternoon upon the next moon's turn, he reached out and snagged her basket of needlepoint materials from her arm playfully, putting his book in it and draping it on his own elbow.

"I am with child, not an invalid," she protested.

He pouted, receiving a roll of her eyes in response. "Still, let me help you." Unable to take no for an answer, he

"Tyrion," she whined, dropping her head back. "I can carry my own sewing materials."

"You can," he said, offering no contest to her ability, "But you are also carrying my child and since I can't help with that, allow me to help with this."

Sansa smiled, gently nudging her husband with her hip as they searched for a sunny spot in the gardens to enjoy the open air.

She found herself wondering how she'd wound up so impossibly lucky. She thanked the Gods daily for him and the life that they'd found themselves in lately. She'd expected to be anxious about all of the things that could go wrong and all of the ways her life would change, but any nerves were well covered by knowing that, together, she and Tyrion could handle whatever life threw at them. Gods know, they'd already handled more than their fair share.

Before long, the politics of Westeros became more and more demanding. When Tyrion returned to their chambers for lunch, he was worrying himself into a frenzy. Sansa lounged comfortably on the settee, hands resting on the now greatly noticeable roundness of her belly watching Tyrion paced the room, sloughing off his doublet and tossing it into his chest unceremoniously. "...And the Targaryen girl is making her way toward King's Landing. Even with our war largely over, I fear another may ensue in short order. She seeks to reclaim her birthright and for the first time in my lifetime," he crossed to the settee, propping himself on the arm, by Sansa's feet, "I can honestly say that the throne, as it sits, doesn't need an uprising. But she has dragons and a Khalasar and the Unsullied. Tommen is still so young. Even with Margaery, Jaime, and I, I don't know if he..."

As his voice grew louder, the flutters she'd been feeling for the past few days turned into full-fledged kicks. Sansa let out a sharp laugh and reached for her husband's hand, interrupting his rant. "Come here," she asked, pulling at him, making him move around to her side. "Tyrion, come! Feel!" She placed his hand on her stomach and urged him to continue. He frowned, not feeling the movements to which she spoke. "Keep talking. The little cub knows your voice. I told you I'd been feeling them move for days, but as soon as you come in, they're-"

And there it was. right against his palm, a quick little kick. Tyrion's jaw fell slack. For the first time, he could truly feel their child and he was over the moon. His heartfelt as though it could burst with pride.

"Is that so, my cub? Is your Papa going to be your favorite?" he asked, easing up onto the settee beside her, leaning close to her and speaking directly to their child. "You're strong, aren't you? Gods," another kick, right against his palm. He stared at Sansa with wonderment. "How long has this been happening?"

Sansa's face conveyed pure joy. She had never imagined that these moments could be like this. She couldn't remember her parents reacting like this with any of her younger siblings, but she supposed, at least by Bran, the novelty might have worn off. She, however, didn't think she would ever tire of having her entire world this close. "A little this morning, but not like this," she said. She brought her hand up to thumb along Tyrion's jaw, pleased that all of the worry seemed to have left his beautiful mind, at least for the moment. "I think they just wanted to say hello and tell you not to worry so much because we love you." She leaned forward and kissed him gently.

He smiled into the kiss, appreciating the distraction. "Did they? Well, I am much less worried now." Sansa wasn't finished with him yet. She pulled him nearer by the front of his tunic and kissed him again, this time with an all-too-familiar hunger. "Very much less," he said, as though assessing his own mental plus and minus volumes.

The further into her pregnancy she progressed, the more Sansa became eager to know the baby's gender. There was no way to be sure, she knew, but she'd been compiling a list of what the maesters and the ladies of court claimed. Margaery had suggested that, based on the shape of her stomach, it would be a girl. "How do I know if I'm carrying high or low?" she asked Tyrion before bed one evening as she stood in front of the looking glass in just her shift.

"I don't know," he said, standing beside her and resting against her side, looking at her form carefully. "I suppose this would probably be considered high," he assessed, before demonstrating, with his hands "closer to your bosom than your hips?"

She laughed, smacking his hands away gently. "Well, I remember the maesters saying that little girls suck out all your beauty and leave your skin blemished and blotchy." Every little mark on her porcelain skin left her wondering if that was true.

Tyrion stood between Sansa and the mirror, placing his hands firmly on her hips and looking up at her. "You, my wife, are more beautiful than ever." He began guiding her away from the mirror slowly, step by step.

Sighing and dropping her hands to his shoulders, she responded, "You, my sweet husband, are an accomplished liar." Still, she couldn't help but smile at his insistence, adding "And I love you for it."

Feigning shock at her accusation, he gasped, "When have I ever lied to you?"

"Never," she laughed, knowing that to be true.

"Precisely," Tyrion said proudly, still sometimes completely astounded by her trust in him. As he got her far enough from the looking glass and turned away from it so she would no longer be tempted by it, he mused, "I remember, before Myrcella was born, the maesters telling Robert that his weight gain was an indicator that she'd be a girl." He laughed, realizing how that sounded, considering the facts of the matter. "I don't know if that counts, necessarily, but my pants are feeling a little tight."

"I thought that was for my benefit," she joked as she reached down and pinched his bottom playfully, eliciting a blast of laughter from her husband. "Besides, it's winter. People put on weight in winter to stave off the chill. I wish there was a way we could know for sure."

Tyrion nodded, supposing that sympathy weight gain probably wasn't the best indicator. Still, he'd read one recently that he was curious about. "I've heard one way that's supposed to be fail-proof. Lie down on the bed," he said, nodding towards it and turning around to rifle through the basket on Sansa's bedside table.

"You can't be serious," she laughed, unsure of what he could be intending, but the suggestion of the bed certainly had her curiosity.

With a deep throaty laugh, he plucked a loose length of thread from her supplies. "Nothing like that," he answered.

Sansa watched his movements carefully. "What are you doing in my embroidery kit?

He slid the lion's head ring from his finger and tied it to the thread. "They say that if you take a ring, tie it to a string, and hang it over your belly, the direction it swings is an indicator." He demonstrated, moving the item in an exaggerated motion. "If it swings in a circle, it's a boy. If it swings straight, like a pendulum, it's a girl."

She raised her eyebrow curiously. "That sounds silly," she admitted as she finally lied back against the pillows and Tyrion crawled in bed beside her, "but it doesn't do any harm, I suppose." Tyrion let his hand hover over her rounded middle for a moment. She nodded, taking a deep breath. The ring dropped from his hand the full length of the string. Back and forth. To and fro. A straight line diagonally across her belly. A girl. "I told you once that I'd give you a flock of girls, didn't I?" she said, watching her husband's face for any sense of disappointment, finding none.

Inside Tyrion's head, a million thoughts crossed his mind, swirling like clouds before a thunderstorm; pink blankets, soft dresses, gentle fingers, her mother's steel, his mind, books, horses. A perfect little girl just like her mother. He leaned forward and kissed her. A girl. He couldn't be more thrilled.

Every passing day saw the expectant parents more and more ready to meet their little one. When they'd moved into the Tower of the Hand, Sansa had arranged for much of their furniture to be lowered, making it easier for Tyrion to access. A cradle and rocking chair sat ready in the corner. A basket of blankets in crimson and gold and grey and white sat beside. They were as prepared as they could be.

Tyrion, however, felt some old fears creeping back in. He awoke one morning much before Sansa, after a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares of losses. He'd been trying to talk himself out of them on his own, but sometimes, it helped to say it out loud. He rolled onto his stomach and edged back to talk specifically to the baby.

"Good morning, little one," he whispered, not wanting to wake Sansa. "I don't know if you can really hear me, even though your mama thinks you can, but I just wanted to share something with you since you'll be here soon." He laced his fingers in front of his mouth and thought carefully. "This world is a scary place. People are cruel and thoughtless. There is very little to be done about that, but know that your uncle, your cousins, and I are working very hard to make it a little safer, a little better." He took a deep breath, grateful, at least, that his child wouldn't be born into a war. There was something comforting there, at least. "But there are some things that I can't help to protect you from. If you should be born a girl... the things your mother has seen, largely because of the way men see women. We will do everything we can to shield you from those things." He noticed the slightest movement against her flesh and reached out, amused by how strange it seemed that Sansa could still sleep through it. "And if you should share my stature, I know too well the way people can treat you. Not everyone, but most people. Your mother and I will raise you to be strong, of body, of mind, and of will. Together, we'll make sure you know that just because you are smaller than does not mean you are less than, no matter what the idiots of court say." He could no longer dance around the fear that had roused him awake that morning. "My birth directly caused my mother's death. The logical part of my mind knows that it wasn't my fault, but even though I am older now, I can't shake the guilt." He shook his head sadly. No matter what happened, he could never, ever hold it against this child. He couldn't help but wonder what made his family so unbelievably cruel to hold it against him. He felt the familiar ache, accompanied by a thousand 'what ifs' that would never be answered and could never undo the hurt. All he could do was promise himself, Sansa, and their unborn child that he would never be that way. "I worry. You'll know that about me soon enough, I imagine. I worry all the time. I worry that the day you are born will be the day your mother..." He gulped. "I can't even bring myself to say it, that's how much it scares me. I know that your mother is strong. I know that she is healthy. Still..." He sighed, letting his finger chase the little fist, or perhaps foot, around Sansa's side, willing the thoughts from his head. "You and your mother are the best things to have ever happened to me. I don't know how I managed to get so lucky. This much is for certain: You are so loved." He laughed a little, already so besotted with this child. "If there's anything that you should know is that you are so, so loved and you won't have to wait twenty-eight years to hear it. You won't have to wait twenty-eight seconds. There will never be any reason for you to doubt that."

Sansa lay in bed, trying not to give away that she'd been awake for the majority of his speech. She faked waking up and reached into the empty space where Tyrion should have been, she swept her hand down gently, only opening her eyes when her hand reached the curls at the top of his head. She watched him for a moment before greeting him good morning. He inched back up to her and placed a kiss just against her collar bone. She leaned down, kissing his forehead gently.

A few weeks later, when it finally came time for Sansa to bring their child into the world, the Red Keep was abuzz with talk of the pending arrival. The sewing circles in the garden frantically worked to finish their gifts. Tommen had nearly tossed Tyrion out of the small council meeting the night prior.

Margaery and her handmaidens were constantly peeking into the room to offer assistance and their presence was largely welcomed by the maesters and septas. Much to the contrary, however, was their treatment of the Father-To-Be. Every time Tyrion attempted to make himself available, he was ushered out rather frantically. The further on the day crept, the more frequent and pained Sansa's laboring became. The more distressed she sounded, the more desperately Tyrion tried to stay. The more he tried to stay, the more unceremonious his dismissals became.

Finally, after some sixteen hours, he barged in again, hearing his wife screaming that she wanted him by her side. The Grand Maester turned to Tyrion and snapped,

"It is not proper for the husband to be present for the birth, My Lord. We will come and find you after." He nodded for another Maester to see him out.

Uselessly, Tyrion paced the hall of the residence like a man possessed. He didn't know where to go or what to do. Frustrated tears streamed from his eyes and as he searched for someplace to go or something to do or someone to talk to. Without much cognizance of where he was headed, he found himself at the door to the Tower of the Lord Commander and knocked loudly.

Despite the late hour, Jaime answered the door quickly, still dressed, and stepped out into the hall to his brother. He surveyed the man's tear-streaked face and shut the door behind him, worry taking hold. Urgently, he asked "Tyrion, what's happened? Is something the matter? Is Sansa alright?"

"They won't let me see her," he said, a sob strangled in his throat. "She's screaming and they won't let me be with her."

"Won't let you?" Jaime folded his arms and leaned back against the door quite casually. "Are you joking? Tyrion, she's your wife." He eyed his brother carefully and continued, wondering if a good smack to the back of the head might set him straight. "We're talking about your soulmate, the love of your life and the birth of your child. Are you honestly going to sit here and let some flaccid maesters keep you apart?"

Tyrion was silent for a moment, staring up at his brother. He sniffed a little, then spoke quietly. "Jaime, I killed our mother. What if-"

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Jaime closed his eyes, cursing his father and sister silently for their treatment of Tyrion. "You did no such thing," he insisted. He watched for a moment as the younger man tried to force back his tears. Internally, he wished for the power to resurrect them both just for them to see the pain they've caused, even still. To hear the way their vindictive, damning commentary had so sorely affected him. And then to let Tyrion kill them himself with his bare hands to relieve some of the stress. In lieu of that capability, he placed his hand on Tyrion's shoulder and started guiding him back down the hall to the tower of the Hand. "I know you're scared. But, Gods, man, can you imagine how afraid she is?" He moved his hand up to tousle his brother's unkempt mess of curls teasingly before giving him a shove. "She's in that situation because she loves you. And you're out here blubbering to me?" Hearing Tyrion laugh eased his own worry some, allowing him to joke further. "I have no sympathy for you. Get yourself together." They approached the door to Tyrion's chambers quickly. Tyrion hesitated, looking at the door for a minute or so before looking up at his brother once more. Jaime rolled his eyes, opening the door and pushing his brother through it. "Be with your wife," he called, swinging the door shut and leaning up against the wall. If Tyrion came back out, he had every intention of pushing him back in until the Maesters believed that he wasn't going anywhere.

As soon as the door to their chambers swung open, Tyrion was greeted with immense frustration by the Grand Maester once more. "My Lord, we've already told you-"

"Hang what you've told me," Tyrion roared, crossing to the bed and pulling a stool beside it. "I'm staying with my wife." The rest of the room seemed to resign to his presence and he felt his confidence soar as he leaned in to whisper softly to Sansa. "I'm sorry, my love. I'm here." He reached instinctively for the damp cloth on the bedside table and dabbed at her forehead. "Are you alright?"

Her tired eyes searched his for a moment, as though trying to absorb the fact that he was really beside her now. She groaned, reaching for him as another wave of pain crashed over her. "It hurts," she said through her teeth.

Tyrion took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "Hold on to me," he offered, voice warm and soothing.

After four more hours, a great deal of encouragement, and a fair bit more screaming, just before daybreak, Sansa brought their firstborn child into the world. A boy, much to the shock of the parents, for all their hypothesizing. The Maesters cleaned him up, checked him over once and handed him back to his mother quickly. The maesters didn't mention their assessment that the boy would likely be like his father to them yet, wanting them to bask in the moment for a while first. His limbs were a little short, his brow a little prominent, his nose a little flat, but all in all, he was a healthy, normal babe. None of the maesters had seen an infant with dwarfism, so they weren't entirely sure that they would know if he were. Instead of delivering news that they weren't absolutely certain of, they retreated to look into it further. In short order, the bed linens were changed, Sansa was seen to, and they septas too took their leave, allowing the parents a bit of privacy.  
Sansa burst into tears, thumbing over the fine, silken red hair on his head and pressing a gentle kiss to his head. Tyrion leaned in next to her side and smoothed his hand over the baby's back. "He's perfect," she said, unable to tear her eyes away from him, but resting her head against her husband's. "I love you. I love you, Tyrion." She raised one hand from the babe resting against her chest to caress her husband's cheek gently. "And I love our son. And I love this." She finally turned to him, taking a deep breath as her eyes flitted over his face, watching as he stared at the baby. Her mind whirred to the members of their families they'd lost and how strange it felt to be rebuilding their dwindled numbers into what their family would mean."This is our family. We made this. If this isn't fate," she started, wrapped up in the intense surge of emotion, "if this isn't what a soulmate feels like, I don't know what is." Finally looking at Sansa, Tyrion couldn't help but kiss her. "This is it, Tyrion. I love you."

"You're just saying that because of the baby," he said, lightly teasing her, slowly coming to believe more and more that, perhaps, she did. Still, he couldn't chase the slightest twinge of skepticism from his voice.

"I love you," she repeated, shaking her head with a smile. "I will say it to you every time I think it until you believe me. I know you had given up hope before I even had the chance, but, Tyrion, I love you." Their son cooed in her arms and drew both of their attention back to the precious bundle in her arms. "Have I given you reason not to trust me?" she asked.

Tyrion was silent for a moment, knowing fully that she had him there. Opting not to answer a question to which they both knew the response for certain, he simply chose to say, "I love you, Sansa." He reached a finger gently to the baby's chubby cheek, caressing him tenderly. "What are we going to name him?"

Looking to her husband for a moment, Sansa suggested the name she'd kept tucked away for a boy, deciding that it might be too soon for her heart to hold another Eddard or Robb. "I had thought perhaps Tytos?" She motioned for Tyrion to hold him and think it over.

In awe of her mind, he stared at her for a moment. Tytos. His grandfather. A kind, happy Lannister that neither of them had ever met. He would never have thought of it, but leave it to Sansa to find a way to make him cry over a name. He carefully took the babe from Sansa and gazed upon him, pacing back and forth. He looked back at his wife. "Are you sure?" She nodded, tears beginning to cloud her bright blue eyes. He looked back to his son and nodded. "Hello, Tytos." The baby's eyes were trained on his father as he spoke.

"Look at the way he looks at you. He knows your voice," Sansa said, readjusting herself against the pillows. As she watched her husband walk the perimeter of their room with their son, she thought her heart might burst with joy.

When Tyrion finally came back to the bed and handed him to her, he couldn't help but slide in next to her, snaking one arm under her head and resting the other around Tytos. From that position, he held his whole world in his arms and felt as big as the sky.

Sansa slept soundly that morning for the first time in a month. Tyrion, however, couldn't sleep a wink. He just wanted to watch the two people he loved most in the world, absolutely content for the first time in his life. When Tytos began to cry, Tyrion rose immediately, moving quickly to the cradle. "Let's you and me let your mother sleep," he said, reaching over the edge and lifting the little one out carefully. He still couldn't believe that he was here when mere hours prior there were still so many variables. "You are perfect, aren't you? I love you, Tytos. My perfect son." He carried him into the living space and sat on the chair, watching him with wonderment. "Your mother says you look like me. I don't see it. Do you know that? You look like her." He paused for a moment, taking the baby's soft gurgles as a response. "Oh sure, you have my eyes and my nose, but you have her hair. And her lips," he brushed his thumb against the baby's arm gently, considering its length. "We'll see about the rest. If you do end up more like me, we'll work through that together. But, I'll tell you what," he said, leaning his head down slightly and whispering to him. "You make me so happy. And your mother makes me so happy. I love her very much. You'll see that, someday. I hope you know how much we both love you."

Once again, Sansa awoke prematurely, this time at the sound of the baby's cry, interrupting a sweet moment between Tyrion and their son. This time, she didn't ape waking up, opting instead to speak her truth, as she promised she would. "I love you," she said softly, gingerly propping herself up on her elbows.

Tyrion lifted his head abruptly, startled by her sudden announcement. "What are you doing awake?" he asked. He crossed to the bed and sat at the edge beside her,

"Watching the two most beautiful, most important men in the world have a most beautiful, most important conversation," she answered sitting up fully, wincing a little as she did. Still, she reached a hand to cup her husband's jaw and pulled him in for a kiss. She then gently kissed the babe who lay wide-eyed in his father's arms.

"Very important indeed. Isn't that right, my boy?" He looked down at Tytos and smiled proudly. He, then, turned his attention back to Sansa. "Even more importantly, how are you feeling?"

She rested back against the pillows. "Sore, but happier than I've been in a long time. Ever, I think." She smiled peacefully. Tyrion agreed with that emotion wholeheartedly. "I have everything I could ever have asked for." She let herself sink down further and rested her arm across Tyrion's lap.

"So do I," he said, sliding tighter to her side. "I love you, Sansa."


	18. Chapter 16

The passage of time does many things to a relationship. It strengthens. It builds. It grows. It nurtures. In the two moon turns between the birth of Tytos Lannister and Sansa's twentieth nameday, she and Tyrion had become as established and steady as any husband and wife nearing the end of their first year of marriage could be and little by little, they began to realize just how perfect they truly were together as a unit.

Sansa's nameday was celebrated with a small supper in the gardens as she was still not ready for anything particularly lavish.

Margaery had taken to stealing the boy away as soon as his mother would be near enough and that night was no different. She situated herself in one of the high backed chairs and doted on him relentlessly.

"Better watch out, Tommen," Jaime teased, leaning toward the King, "That wife of yours does tend to have the next husband ready and younger." She lifted her eyes and shot Jaime a playful glare. Tyrion and Sansa both nearly spat out their wine.

Tommen merely rolled his eyes at his father. "She wants one of her own," he laughed.

"Is she..." Jaime asked, nearly falling from his chair at the prospect of being a grandfather.

The king shook his head. "Not yet," he confessed. "I don't know that I'm ready for that." In reality, he and Margaery had decided to forgo such marital activities, barring their wedding night which they'd both seen more as an obligation than anything else. He was still so young and Margaery wasn't willing to risk the harm. They'd discussed it at length and decided that, perhaps, it would be better to wait and see what developed between them. Though the seven years between them wasn't unheard of, it still was certainly less than ideal when one was merely a boy. Truth be told, as much as he knew that it was pressing that they have an heir and soon, he was not ready to be a father any more than he was truly ready to be a husband. When Margaery had suggested that they, perhaps, try to be friends first, he'd eased to the situation immensely. Friends meant that they had time. Despite his age, Tommen couldn't ignore the certain smile Margaery would get every time she'd hold Tytos. She'd never truly mentioned it, but he wasn't a fool. He knew that she yearned for one of her own. He wished to be able to give her that. Someday.

"Ready is perhaps an unrealistic goal," Sansa stated, resting her hand on her husband's thigh beneath the table. "You can be as prepared as you'd like, but still, once you have that little one in your arms," she cast a glance at her son and shook her head, "everything you thought you knew goes out the window and you're left to make it up as you go."

The group chatted happily well into the night.

As they walked back to the Tower of the Hand, Sansa looked over at her husband, carrying Tytos in a hooded basket of dry, woven palm fronds lined with a supple grey fur. "I wanted to thank you for the lemon cakes and the wildflowers." He looked at her curiously. The cake had been lemon, of course, but they'd been in the section of the garden with Wisteria trees and Sunflowers. "Last year," she said, playing along with his inability to take credit for how truly kind he was to her from the start.

His eyes widened. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he fibbed.

She shifted her gifts in her arms; a silken sapphire blue dress and sky blue dressing gown from Margaery, a set of hair combs of onyx and opal shaped like snow-capped mountains from Tommen, and a golden bracelet with a direwolf and a lion on opposing sides of the clasp from Jaime, along with word from Brienne that Arya had been spotted with a young man at Dragonstone, leaving in a small skiff. Tyrion had insisted that she not open his gift until they returned to their chambers. Between the conversation, the luxurious presents, and the exquisite food, she was convinced that she had to be the most spoiled woman in all of Westeros. "Were you aware that that was the only acknowledgment of my nameday at all last year? I had no idea who sent them at the time, but once I knew you had sent Shae," she raised her eyebrows a bit and reached her hand to rest gently on his shoulder, "there was no one else it could have been." She gave a soft smile at the blush tinging his cheeks. "You were so shocked at my knowing and wanting to celebrate yours, but you had obviously gone to some lengths to know mine." She stopped, interrupting his gait as well. She turned to face him. "It was subtle and thoughtful and entirely perfect and I wanted to say thank you, even if it is late." Sansa leaned down and kissed him tenderly before continuing on their way.

Tyrion reached out for her hand with his free one. "You are relentlessly easy to please." He pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles and led her through the door. He'd paid Sansa's handmaidens extra to tidy their room, which had been left in wild disarray since the Tytos' birth, scatter flower petals, and light all the candles before making themselves scarce. The girls had tittered excitedly at his effort, always thoroughly pleased by how he doted on the lady. One girl, very young, very sweet, and very new to Sansa's service, nearly fainted when he handed her the gold dragon and bubbled about how she wished that one day she might find a man as generous as he. Tyrion had rolled his eyes and patted the girl's hand, assuring her that that wish was ill-placed.

When they finally entered, Sansa's eyes shone brightly at the glittering room before her. Tyrion placed the basket by the door and plucked the babe from it and watched his wife turn, amazed by the transformation. She glowed in the light. He crossed to the bassinet and placed Tytos within, before retrieving his gift from a drawer in his nightstand. Sansa carefully hung her dress and dressing gown, then put the trinkets on her vanity, then sat on the edge of the bed. "What is on that curious mind of yours," she said, tucking her legs under her and watching him pace, clearly readying words that would leave her utterly speechless in one way or another.

"There is still one gift for you and I want to make sure I have the right words to express it," he said.

"If anyone in all of Westeros has them, it is you, my love," she assured, reaching a hand for him and tugging him into the bed next to her.

Proffering the small black box to her, he mimicked her position, resting a hand on her leg as she untied the red ribbon carefully. Removing its lid revealed a small golden ring with two hands clasped around two heart-shaped stones, one red and one grey. Inside, the band was inscribed with part of the wedding rites of the seven: I am yours and you are mine. "Wedding rings are not customary in Westeros, but, a long time ago, I read about a Braavosi custom," he explained. Sansa was always so enchanted by the far-off look Tyrion would get when he told her stories, as though he was there in his mind. "When a man asks for a woman's hand, he presents her with a ring. The seafarers and warriors use monogrammed signets. The rest of the people, those for whom more ornate rings wouldn't get in the way of their utilitarian work, give fedes, like this one." He smiled, pointing to the box. "The band, going on neverending, represents eternal love, the opening is supposed to symbolize a gateway to worlds unexplored. The linked hands are supposed to mean partnership." He leaned forward and extracted the ring from the box and slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand. "Since we were only betrothed for three days, I thought that, as it is your nameday and nearly the first anniversary of that time, now would be a fitting moment to present it to you." Sansa stared at it for a while, watching the stones gleam and taking in its importance. "I hope, too, that this ring can serve as a reminder that, I will try to be more able, in the coming years, to accept your praise and your love and a promise that, even when I'm being oblivious to your words," Sansa laughed, tears beginning to well at the corners of her eyes, and kissed him, "that I will always try to be the man you think I am."

"The man I know you are," she corrected, kissing him again. "I love you. Thank you, Tyrion. It's beautiful."

Still, true to her word the day their son was born, Sansa continued to remind Tyrion consistently of her love for him so that, when the time came for her next nameday, he might, hopefully, be convinced that his first words to her would appear on her flesh. Surely, it wasn't every time she thought it, but it may as well have been.

One night later that week, Tyrion didn't make it back to their chambers until well past the midnight hour. When he did, he was shocked to find Sansa sitting up in bed awaiting his return. "Are you alright?" she asked, looking up from her needlepoint, seeing him nearly lose his footing in his hurried pace and aggravation.

"I'm so sorry, my love," he said, tired eyes half-closed as he walked toward the bed. "You needn't have waited up for me. But yes, I'm fine," he busied himself on undoing his doublet and flung it aside haphazardly in frustration, moving on to shed layer after layer before climbing into bed beside her. "One of the Mullendores is seeking to unseat Tommen, claiming that he's..." He paused momentarily, worry clouding his thoughts. The Mullendore knight in question seemed to think that, as his house had sworn allegiance to House Tyrell that he was obligated to rescue and marry Margaery entitled to make himself king. Tyrion certainly didn't want to worry Sansa over anything as unnecessary as that. "Well, it doesn't matter what he thinks he is, it won't happen. Either way, I had to come up with a way to thwart the boy before he gets too far ahead of himself." He slid in closer to her, enjoying the warmth she seemed to radiate.

Sansa replied with a simple, "You'll manage it." She stowed her sewing in her bedside table and turned back to her husband.

He took her hand gently, resting it against his chest. "I hope so."

"I know so," she affirmed.

Tyrion watched her, in awe of her placid confidence. She was every bit the regal ladywife, but somehow her sentiments didn't have the affected distance he'd seen in many wives. Her feelings were, seemingly, genuine. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, rolling onto his side to face her.

Smiling softly, she inched closer to him. "Because I know you," she stated, plain as fact. "I know your mind. Our kingdom is in good, capable hands." Sansa leaned forward, closing the distance between them to kiss his forehead.

He exhaled, feeling the frenetic energy of his day dissipate. "I love you, Sansa."

"I love you," she repeated, wrapping him in her arms and pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck.

The first day of the following week's court sessions was ushered in, as the first day of the week often is, with all sorts of foul attitudes. Even Sansa hadn't had much desire to attend that morning, wishing only to stay and dote on her son, but the nursemaid had insisted that she take a moment to herself. She'd dressed warmly and tucked her hair up into a tightly woven hairnet matching the green velvet of her dress. During the first recess, Tyrion descended from the dais to join Sansa in his free moment. As he did, a knight who'd been standing behind her all morning, regaling his companion of all the ladies of court he'd bedded since arriving in King's Landing, much to Sansa's chagrin, made a comment about her husband's assumed proclivities and the difficulty the half-man must have reached the only so-called worthy parts of a woman.

Able to bear no more of his mindless prattle, Sansa turned around to the man, still keeping her ear attuned to the hastening pace and lessening distance of Tyrion's gait. The knight blanched, placing the face of the woman before him instantly. "And yet, Ser Kelvin," she said sharply, gaze seemingly piercing through the man's soul, "somehow Lord Tyrion manages to reach heights that the likes of which you could never dream, while you choose to stoop lower than he would ever dare."

Gaze immediately dropping to the pale stone floor, "Yes, my lady," he agreed, stammering out a hurried, "I'm sorry, my lady."

The clack of the boots came to a halt beside her. Sansa's mouth curled up into a devious smile as she reached her left hand out to be met by the familiar warmth of Tyrion's right. "I believe it is my husband to whom you should be apologizing," she suggested.

Ser Kelvin's head shot up to find that he was, suddenly, face to face with Tyrion himself. "Yes, right. Deepest apologies, my lord," he said, quickly turning and to seek company further away from the woman's wrath.

"Why, Lady Stark-" Tyrion gasped, trying and failing to banish the mirth from his tone. He would never tire of his wife's protective nature.

Puffing out her chest proudly, Sansa corrected him, "Lady Lannister, I believe." The name had lost the disdain she'd previously held against it quite some time previously. In its place had grown an honor, connecting herself to her husband and son for all who made her acquaintance to recognize. "My husband's status demands that I be recognized by his name, does it not?"

Tyrion tutted, playing along with her importance. "Fine, Lady Lannister." He kissed her hand in a courtly greeting, watching the way the knight glanced over at them every few moments, seemingly terrified that they might follow. "I do believe you've frightened the poor lad," he laughed.

Sansa shrugged his concern off. "Good. Serves him right for insulting the man I love."

A fond memory crossed his mind. "There once was a time, the worst you'd have suggested was that we sheep shift his mattress," he teased.

Growing red around the ears, she pulled back, swatting him playfully, a broad smile creeping across her features. "I should never have told you that."

"Why?" he asked. Truthfully, it was one of his favorite anecdotes. It was the first time Sansa had truly granted him access to her private life. The only reason he teased about it was seeing the way she lit up when happier times were mentioned. Especially now that they were, themselves, happy and safe, the recollection of her lost family didn't seem to pain her so. If it did, the ability to remember them fondly without reproach helped...

"Because you'll never let go of it," she answered, beginning to follow him toward the dais to greet their family. "You're like a dog with a bone."

Tyrion tugged her close, nudging her side gently. "It's you I'll never let go of."

The next morning, a pair of ravens met them at their breakfast table. One bore a letter addressed to Tyrion. The second, Sansa. As he opened the note, he couldn't place the script. "Tyrion- So you wormed your way out of death again, you little shit? And somehow you managed to bring life in its wake? Good for you." He laughed. The writer wrote just as he spoke. There was no mistaking Bronn's syntax. "Shae is dragging me all over Westeros seeing things she's never seen. I'm taking it as an opportunity to shag in places I've never shagged." Tyrion shook his head. The man was incorrigible if nothing else. "She's doing well and misses Lady Sansa terribly. That said, one of the places the dear broad wanted to see was the wall. Not to piss off the end of it, like some people, but just to see it. For my part, I'm ready to ride back South as soon as the weather breaks, but who knows when that will be." Tyrion was glad to hear it. He certainly wouldn't mind having him back in the capital. "I got to do a little bit of sparring with the men of the Night's Watch. Picked up a bit of interesting information from the Lord Commander, a sad little bastard by the name of Jon Snow." Tyrion nearly dropped the parchment as his eyes darted up to Sansa. She didn't notice, however as she was thoroughly focused on her own letter. "He heard whispers from north of the wall that his two little brothers were seen alive, just a week before I saw him. He sent some scouts out in search of them and thinks it might be possible to that he'll find them before the next moon turn." His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. There was a chance that the boys could be safe. He could hardly believe it. He'd make arrangements right away to have the boys brought south to their sister as soon as possible. Maybe he could talk Jon into it. Truthfully, he'd sooner believe that the man wouldn't have it any other way. "He's a right determined prick, that one, but you can see the Stark in him from a mile away. Bring Lady Sansa North soon. She might find it more familiar than she once thought. Her big brother misses her and wishes her well. You should expect a letter from him as well. Best- Bronn." He rolled the parchment back into its scroll and watched Sansa brush the tears from her eyes as she did the same.

As soon as Sansa had unfurled the scroll, her breath had caught in her throat. She'd have known that script, so similar to her own, anywhere. Jon. "Sansa- I had a visit from a friend of your husband's recently, a man by the name of Bronn? He says you've had quite the trying time of King's Landing. I'm sorry it's not all you hoped it would be when we were young." Tears stung in her eyes. She'd always been so cruel when they were young, emulating her mother's treatment of him. As they got older, and she'd been able to make up her own mind, they'd made nice. Still, for a time, she was convinced that Jon was all the family she had left in the world. Even now, he was the first one she'd been in touch with. She felt her affection for him surge in her chest. "Truthfully, the Night's Watch isn't either. I do so wish I could have been there with you and Arya when father died. At least now, it seems, you've got a husband who loves you." She smiled gently. She had secretly wondered how her marriage would be met by her family, were they ever to reunite. If Jon was any indication, it might still be okay. "I spent a considerable amount of time with him after we left Winterfell to go to the Wall. He's a good man, it seems. If he ever gives you trouble, however, I'll make haste for the Red Keep and drag him back here to take the black in the bat of an eye." She laughed, not doubting it for a moment. She couldn't help herself but imagine him looking very much as their father did when she was young. He was very nearly the same age Eddard had been when Sansa was born. She suddenly found herself eager for the first moment they'd be able to ride North. "Though, perhaps, the father of your child would better serve in King's Landing. I could hardly believe it when I heard. You're a mother, Sansa. A mother and married to a highborn lord- Hand of the King, no less. I do so wish I could meet my nephew someday. Perhaps if you were to make your way North someday..." It was as though he knew how her mind would react. She felt a few tears stream from her eyes at the welcomed idea of playing with Tytos in the snow. Maybe when he grew a little older. She read on. "Speaking of which- And now, Sansa, I don't want to get your hopes up, but I've sent men to search for Bran and Rickon." Bran and Rickon. Their faces flew forward in her mind as though the boys were running straight for her. She thought she might faint. They were alive. Bran and Rickon. Her baby brothers were alive. Her eyes returned to the parchment. "They were seen alive and I'm doing everything I can to bring them back. When I do, I swear it, Sansa, there will be a raven on its way to you before the boys are out of my arms. I've also heard news of Arya. She and a man named Gendry escaped Dragonstone some time ago in a sailboat headed north. They then boarded a ship bound for Braavos and haven't been seen since. A lady knight called Brienne, who said she was sworn to Lady Stark and married to Jamie Lannister, and her riding companion left from East Watch in search of her, she seemed determined to bring her back to you." Sansa's jaw fell slack. She could scarcely believe it. She felt as though she might faint. Still, she clung to her senses and continued reading. "I asked that, in the event that she does find her, that she bring Arya here first so that I can verify that it is her before she makes the long voyage to you. Truthfully, I didn't want her to get your hopes up only to find them dashed." Her hands shook as the tears began to fall with fervor. "Please, Sansa, take care. I know you're strong and capable, but I worry, being so far removed. I wish there were more I could do, but I know my place is here now. I do think of our family constantly. I know that Robb feared so for you, but you can certainly take care of yourself and where you might not, I have faith in Tyrion." She wiped the tears from her eyes and began to laugh hysterically, unable to contain her emotions. "Do tell him that I haven't forgotten who I am. Stay in touch, dear sister. Love, Jon." She rose from her chair and nearly threw herself into Tyrion's arms, soaking the shoulder of his tunic.

"They're alright. Your little siblings are all alright," he cooed, wrapping her as tightly in his arms as he could manage. "We'll get them all here as soon as possible. I promise, Sansa."

She lifted her head and kissed him passionately. "I love you, Tyrion. And you'll love them. And they'll love you. I know it," she stood back up, going to the cradle and plucking the baby from within, talking at him excitedly.

Tyrion watched her spin around the room with Tytos tucked carefully in her arms. Just a year prior, when he'd awoken the morning after his cursed nephew's nameday celebration to find himself to marry Sansa in just three days' time, he'd never have allowed himself to imagine that a morning could be like this. Especially not in just a year's time.

Still, just after marked their first wedding anniversary. They'd exchanged their gifts in the morning. Sansa had found a beautifully embossed stationery set, including a gold-leafed ledger book for Tyrion and slid 12 carefully written letters between random pages, in the hopes that he would find them on stressful days and have something to smile about. Tyrion had found a young girl in the market selling paper flowers. He'd bought a dozen in varying ultramarine hues and carefully written stanzas from his favorite love songs and poems on the petals. After the sun had set, Sansa led Tyrion by the hand through a maze of tunnels, each of them carrying a pile of furs and quilts. After a brief walk, they were on the stony beach where they'd watched the stars together.

Once the couple had set down a layer of furs, they lay on the ground and covered themselves up with the remainder of what they'd brought. "The afternoon we spent here was, perhaps, the moment it fell into place that I really, truly could fall for you," Sansa said, nestling herself under his arm.

"That early?" he asked, surprised that she'd felt amenable to him so soon.

"That early," she confirmed, pulling his arm tightly around her shoulders and lacing their fingers together. "I could just feel it in the way that we opened up so quickly to one another. In how easily I managed to persuade you into the water. In the month prior, I had never seen you truly smile, truly laugh." She looked up at Tyrion, one eyebrow slightly raised. She teased, "I wasn't sure that you could. But you did. We played together in the water and, in that moment, I saw how it could be down the line. I saw you laughing with our children and telling them stories about dragons and stars." She rested her hand atop his chest, close to his heart. "I'd spent so much time in such a serious state, but I finally saw that, maybe, with the right person, King's Landing didn't have to be so stoic." Propping herself up on her elbow, she hovered over him for a moment, kissing him gently. "You brought light back to my life, Tyrion. I love you."

Tyrion ran his fingers through her soft locks gazing upon her face. "I love you. If I brought light back to your life, you brought life itself back into mine." He focused on her eyes, willing himself not to lose his train of thought. "You know the type of man I was before you. That life was empty. It was meaningless. It's as though I slept through years of my life and you woke me up and now I still have to prove to myself that you're not a dream."

Sensing the window for her wicked plan, she situated herself atop her husband and lowered her mouth to his neck, sucking down hard. "Could a dream do this?" she asked, voice husky and dripping with want.

"Often, they do," he responded, playing along with her queries.

"What about this?" Sansa gave a half-smile and trailed her hand down his stomach to his waist and slid it beneath the fabric. She let her grip slide down his length, beginning to move herself closer to where she wanted to be.

He licked his lips and closed his eyes. "The really, impressively good ones," he admitted. In truth, his more illicit dreams were nothing compared to what Sansa proved to make him feel on a regular basis.

Raising to her knees and situating herself atop her husband, Sansa began to work at the laces of his trousers, hitching her hips against him through the fabric. "Then, this," she said, tone silky and seductive, "must be...?"

"Only the absolute wildest." He brought his hands to her waist, pulling her tighter against him. "Are you s- sure you want to-" he stammered, unable to make his brain function as well as Sansa's motions. He choked out a laugh and lagged his head back as she tugged the garment between them down, bewildered by how eager she was, "to do this here?" They were on the beach, after all, and Sansa was still fairly modest by King's Landing standards. Even though the stony seaside retreat was well secluded, there was no guarantee that someone wouldn't see them from a window or happen upon the location by chance.

Sansa bunched up her skirts, then resituated them, concealing the bulk of their bodies from the wintry air. "As I recall, the last time we were here, parts of you did. Is that not the case now?" She teased her delicate fingers up and down his hardening member. He closed his eyes reflexively and gave in to her careful ministrations. "I suppose that settles that, then."

Pulling her closer to him, he kissed her. He kissed her over and over until her legs began to tremble. "If you keep doing that," he said, sliding his hand over hers to stay her motions, "I'll never last."

"We have all night," she reminded him. "If you don't last, we'll have to go again."

His hands found their way to her hips, gripping her tightly. He slid himself free, breathless with anticipation, and stood, guiding her onto her back. "Or, we do it right the first time, and then again a few more times," he suggested, trailing his hands lightly up her sides to stop at her ribs. "After all, you said we have all night. Why rush?"

Sansa reached for him, winding her hands in his curls and pulled him in for another kiss. She felt him fling her skirts up slightly and gasped as his usually warm hands brought a new sensation of chill up her thighs. She shivered, more from pleasure than anything else, and moved closer to him.

Allowing his fingers to dance lightly around her sex, Tyrion delighted in teasing her. Each touch elicited a new reaction; a smile, a bite of her lip, a shiver, a whine.

When he finally slid one inside of her to stroke her center, the contrast to her heat, she felt her nerves spark to life. He pulled her legs around his hips and slid himself inside of her.

She propped herself on her elbows, adjusting her angle to his thrusts, moving her hips in time with him.

As their rhythm began to build, Sansa's thighs began to tremble and gave way, sending her crashing against the furs with a thud. A burst of laughter shot from her lips and she rolled to her side, momentarily lost in her fit of giggles. Tyrion watched her for a moment, struggling to follow what had just happened. "Are you alright?" he asked, growing concerned, and crawled atop her, tilting her head to face him. He marveled at his beautiful wife's free-spirited laugher and felt himself fall further and further in love with her.

"Fine," she managed to squeak out between hysterics. Tyrion couldn't help himself but join her laughter, still completely baffled by the moment. She would never have believed something so mortifying wouldn't have sent her fleeing, but here she was, still ready to go on. He, however, had always imagined a wife he could laugh with in any situation, and to see Sansa in such a way filled him with an immeasurable joy.

Tyrion wrapped his arms around her waist. "Perhaps a different position, then," he said, rolling onto his side and pulling her flush against him. He buried his mouth in the curve of her neck and pushed her skirts up again. She arched her leg up over his side and led his hand to her center as he entered her again.

Before long, they had both regained the fire they'd previously reached. Sansa began to rock harder against Tyrion. He moved his hand in quick circles over her clit. Releasing a throaty moan as she neared her edge, she brought her mouth to his, stifling her own cries.

Tyrion panted against her mouth, gently nipping at her lip. "You are breathtaking," he whispered. He could have watched her face, relaxed in ecstasy, for all eternity.

He loved to watch her troubles, her worries, her fears, her traumas fall to the wayside, even just for a moment.

Pulse racing, Sansa reached her orgasm, the dull grey afternoon exploding into fits of color around her. A few more thrusts saw Tyrion hit his own end as well. He wrapped her as tightly in his arms as he could manage, still trembling in exertion. He kissed her forehead. "I love you," he whispered. And he did. A year into a marriage that had completely taken his wife off guard, he was so helplessly in love with her that he could hardly contain himself.

Breathlessly smiling at her husband, Sansa shook her head, eyes drifting closed momentarily. "I love you," she said, resting her hand on his forearm. Sansa watched him silently for a moment. "You'll never know how much I really, truly do." Running her thumb up and down over the fabric of his tunic, she thought about how differently their wedding night had happened. She wished that she could allow that version of herself a glimpse of the happiness he would bring her in such a short amount of time.

The couple lay entwined on the shore well into the night, alternating between talking and joking and lovemaking until they were as spent as they dared. Walking back up to the red keep, they stayed as close together as they could manage. When they finally reached their chambers, Sansa thanked the septa for watching Tytos for the night. As she and Tyrion readied for bed for the night, she couldn't help herself but to wrap her husband in her arms once more.

As the weeks passed, Sansa and Tyrion became more and more practiced and adjusted to their roles as Mother and Father. One night, they banded together to bathe their fussy son. Sansa stood with Tytos at the basin. Tyrion stood beside with soap and towels and a clean swaddling cloth to put him down for the night in. The boy flailed and splashed. As Sansa began washing his back, she froze, spying a swatch of something pink all over him. "Tytos, how-" she stammered. She knew that children found ways to get sticky, but babies... He wasn't old enough to get into that sort of hijinks on his own, "how do you manage to get this sticky mess on your back?" Tyrion craned to get a look at the offending mess. "What is that?" she gaped.

"I haven't the foggiest," he shrugged, avoiding her gaze suspiciously.

Sansa didn't believe him for a second. "Is that so?" She took one look at her husband and kissed him, sucking his lip between hers. She lingered close by and caught a whiff of something sweet on his whiskers. "I think it's peach juice." She, in full mother fashion, lifted the babe from the water and pressed his back close to her face. "Yes, peaches."

Stammering, he found himself struggling to bluff his way out of it. "I... where would he have gotten peaches?" he balked.

Groaning, she attempted to interrupt him. "Tyrion-"

"It's the middle of winter," he reminded, as though the Red Keep didn't have access to fresh fruit at all times.

"Tyrion," she said, taking a swipe at the bathwater to splash him. "It's fine."

His mouth hung open, and he repaid her favor in kind. "That wasn't fine!" Back and forth, they splashed, playing together. "Sansa!" he said, voice tinged with a gentle reproach.

Sansa watched, still in awe as Tytos giggled at their antics. "Hey! Oh, is that funny you?" She flicked a few drops at him and he splashed heartily. After the water had grown cold and its level had dwindled, they wrapped the baby up tightly and put him in his cradle.

"You're drenched," Tyrion assessed, looking at the state of them both.

Reaching out, she brushed a soaked section of curls from in front of his eyes. "As are you."

Hands dug into her skirts, he pulled her closer. "You should change into dry clothes before you catch cold." He made no motion to release her, however.

Eyebrow raised suspiciously. "That's why you got him all filthy. You wanted to get me out of my dress." She leaned down to kiss his forehead, then crossed toward her chest of drawers. "There were easier ways to do that, you know," she mused, undoing the laces on the back of her dress and letting it pool around her ankles as she stepped out of it.

Tongue growing thick in his mouth, Tyrion followed her, undoing the laces on his vest quickly and tossing it aside. "While I would never turn down such an opportunity, I cannot say that my foresight brought me to that point today, unfortunately." He chewed at his lip, then pulled her closer by the hem of her shift. "I'll gladly take all the blame you care to lay, however." He pressed his body close to hers and laughed, swatting at her bottom.

As she sat at her vanity, brushing her hair before bed on a cool night, she caught a glimpse of her husband, already prepared for sleep, staring at her in the looking glass from the foot of the bed behind her. He seemed completely lost in thought. Sansa, too, found herself retreating into her own mind.

"What?" she asked, wishing suddenly to be gifted with the power of greensight.

Shaking himself back to life, he blurted out a confused, "I'm sorry?" He blinked a few times, drawing his gaze from her.

With a laugh, she placed down her brush and gave him an accusatory glance. You're staring."

Amused, Tyrion asked, "Was I? It seems I can't help that." In truth, he was trying desperately to imagine, in no time at all, where the words of his wife's soulmate would come in. He wouldn't dare let himself imagine that they would be his because he couldn't handle the heartbreak if they weren't. Still, as he watched, he felt himself drawn over and over again to the bare strip of skin on her back above her shift. Instead of letting his mind wander any further, he acted on impulse and moved toward her, kissing the spot instead.

She smiled, reaching her hand around, running her fingers through his hair, still watching him in the mirror. "Good."

"You enjoy being stared at?" he teased, propping his chin on her shoulder and resting his arms around her waist.

Sansa layered her arms over his and rested her head against his. "By my husband."

The faintest laugh escaped his lips. "How lucky he must be." Tyrion still counted himself among the luckiest people in the world, for the beautiful, caring, intelligent woman he held in his arms was his wife for as long as she would have him.

Sensing the trace of self-doubt he was allowing in, Sansa corrected, "How lucky I must be." She shifted in his grasp so that she was face to face with him and draped her arms over his shoulders. "I love you."

"Sansa," Tyrion sighed, "you know, you don't have to say that so often, I haven't fought you on the matter in some time now."

She shook her head, kissing him gently. "And I promised you that I would tell you every time I thought it so you'd never have to wonder. I am true to my word." She let her hand trail down his chest, drawing her fingers across his marking. "Except these." She made a sour face as her eyes flitted over the words I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.

Tyrion simply smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to her pouting lips.

No matter how many times he'd insisted that she needn't remind him of her love every time she thought it, she would never allow herself to let the moment pass.

One night, a few days later, the pair of them were lying in bed after putting Tytos down for the night. Tyrion found himself buried in a thick volume regarding the history of the North. The small counsel was, secretly, working on a way to try to reclaim Winterfell and the North from the Boltons. The public line would be that they wanted to present a more unified front when the Targaryen girl finally made her way to Westeros. Truthfully, though, Tyrion was much more interested in ensuring that, now that Sansa was well on her way to having her family in one place, that there might be someplace for them to return to, should they not wish to stay in Kings Landing. They were still a ways away from achieving any of that, but he still wanted to be able to plan for it. Sansa busied herself on mending a few items of clothing before bed. When Tyrion snaked his arm around the small of her back, she couldn't contain the quiet admission of "I love you." Tyrion rolled his eyes, but she leaned over to kiss him anyway.


	19. Chapter 17

A few weeks later, Tyrion found himself entering his chambers before the evening meal. The candles were all lit, but there wasn't a soul within. He checked the tables for a note as to where Sansa and Tytos had snuck off to.

From behind the dressing screen, Sansa knelt crouched with their son on her knee. Tytos began to babble at the footsteps. She peeked to the edge and nodded at Jaime, squatting behind the settee, who turned to the doorway of the solar and nodded at Tommen and Margaery, peeking through the slats. Sansa set Tytos on the floor and let him crawl toward Tyrion, an excited giggle escaping the boy as his father lifted him up quickly. "Were you here all alone?" Tyrion asked him loudly, hiding the laughter from his voice. "Well, since you're so grown, I guess you and I will take off for the tavern," he said, opening the door exaggeratedly.

Jaime tugged a cord that unfurled a banner that read Happy Thirtieth Tyrion. When it finally unraveled completely, the attendees gave a rousing shout of "Surprise!" revealing themselves.

"Happy nameday, my love," Sansa said, crossing to him and kissing him.

Tyrion thought for a moment. It couldn't be... "No, not-" He counted the turns since his last nameday. Five before Tytos. Eight since. That did, indeed, make twelve. "I suppose you're right," he admitted. Another nameday. Lovely. Suddenly, he realized that that meant merely six more turns until Sansa's twenty-first.

Jaime beckoned his brother forward with a flagon of Dornish red. "Alright, get in here and entertain your guests!"

The evening went by in raucous delight. They laughed and joked. Jaime regaled them with stories of a young Tyrion's antics. They shared food and drink. As the night wore down, and they bid their guests farewell, Tyrion turned to his wife and took her hand. "Thank you, Sansa. Tonight was lovely."

She smiled. While she appreciated that he thought it was her doing, she needed to correct him. "Actually, while I helped, the bulk of the credit for the evening should go to Jaime."

Tyrion stared at his brother for a moment. After all, his thirtieth nameday held a deeper wound for Jaime. Thirty years since he'd lost his mother.

Eyes never leaving the floor, Jaime cursed silently. He'd hoped that Sansa would take the credit so that this conversation didn't have to happen. He'd told her such, but the woman certainly was determined. She'd told him, when he came to her with his idea and the full story on how Tywin had never allowed them to celebrate Tyrion's nameday and the spike in cruelty toward him at that particular time of year, but how he'd always done his best to make sure that, even if he couldn't say it out loud, he'd done what he could to make the day better for his brother. He'd request Tyrion's favorite meals for that day. As they got older, he'd go to the brothels and taverns he frequented and spread coin to the keepers to make sure he was well taken care of all night. Even after he'd left for King's Landing, he would write to members of the staff of Casterly Rock to attempt the same thing. "I had time to make up for. I know it can't fix..." he finally looked back at his little brother and trailed off. It couldn't fix anything at all. "It isn't much, but I had hoped..."

Before he could finish whatever he had hoped to accomplish, Tyrion had taken his brother's hands and tugged him forward into a fond embrace. "Thank you, Jaime."  
Sansa wiped away a few tears and leaned into Margaery's side, the queen doing the same. Knowing how much Tyrion had always admired Jaime, she wanted so for the brothers to have their chance at true friendship now that everything else was out of the way. They both deserved as much. She'd have sworn she even heard the King sniff once but moved on to entertaining his cousin on his hip.

After the party broke up, Tyrion and Sansa rested against each other on the settee watching Tytos play on the floor with brightly painted blocks. He pulled her in tightly under his arm and kissed the top of her head. "You'll never know how much having you by my side means to me, Sansa. I'll never be able to thank you enough for being the woman you are." In that night alone, it had occurred to him that, perhaps, the next thirty years of his life would be something different entirely. "You make me feel like the most important, most loved man in the world."

"I know," she said, sounding rather cavalier about it all. She rested her hand on his thigh and let herself bask in the moment. Finally, Tyrion was beginning to see that she really did love him.

Tyrion laughed, taken aback by her tone. "Oh, you do?" He poked at her side gently.

She swatted his hand away and slid down, a bit so that her head rested on his lap comfortably. She looked up at him and rolled her eyes. "Do you think that, by now, I don't know how to love you?" She reached up and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together. Tyrion fell quiet. She thought back to how, even in the earliest days of their marriage, these little movements of intimacy had been so easy between them and how integral those touches had been to her ability to be the most open, confident version of herself she could be with him. "You are the most important, most loved man in the world, Tyrion." When he seemed to want to object, she stressed, "To me. You are to me."

As time wore on, Tyrion's responsibilities as Hand of the King kept him away for longer and longer hours. One particularly cold day, He found himself curled up by the fire in his study, trying to focus on a letter from some great house or other to have their reach expanded by five leagues on any given side. They provided no reason, no recourse, no retribution, just the request. It was bizarre, not truly enough space to do much as it would just be further into the woods. They had to have a deeper meaning. Perhaps a gold vein or something strategic to block. Either way, he scoured the words for some kind of sign until his eyes were bleary and his head pounded. He needed to get out of there.

He stood, brushing the dust from his legs and hurried for his chambers to greet his family. "Sansa?" he called, reaching the door and finding no one within.

"Out here," she called. Sansa sat at the table on the balcony with Tytos slumbering at her breast under a thick blanket and fluffy pelt. "What are you doing back so early?" she asked.

Tyrion shivered as he made his way to them. "I missed my wife and my son and couldn't think of anything more pressing than doing this," he kissed the top of the baby's head, "And this." He kissed Sansa passionately.

"Have I turned a lion into a housecat?" she chided, raising and following him in out of the cold.

"Don't let Tommen hear you say that," he said, in a mock scandal. "I'll never be able to leave again."

Passing Tytos to Tyrion, Sansa gave a quiet laugh. "Oh, leave him be. There are worse things than Kings who love their pets." Everyone was so preoccupied with Tommen's pet that they didn't stop to realize that it was, perhaps, a good thing. The last monarch had been the type to have taken joy in torturing small animals so, for Sansa's opinion, one who enjoyed their company and took care of them was a sign of good things.

"And what about men who love their sons?" Tyrion asked, rocking the boy gently.

Seeing where he was going, Sansa added, "Or women who love their husbands?" She leaned over the armrest of the settee and pouted, waiting for his response.

Narrowing his eyes a bit and settling into the opposite end of the settee, Tyrion said, "Certainly no worse than men who love their wives."

Sansa eased over the edge of the furniture and watched as Tytos began to stir, bouncing a little on his father's lap and tugging at his whiskers. "Good," she said, leaning in to kiss them both. Her heart was warmed by the moment, like so many others. She wanted only to hold on to these moments, knowing how fleeting they truly were.

As it turned out, there were a great many things that called for the attention of the Hand of the King and every time he found one his mind grew stuck on, he would come back home to talk it out with Sansa. One afternoon, knowing that his wife had to attend other duties, having tea with the Queen and a few visiting Highborn Ladies, trying to convince them to have their husbands swear themselves to Tommen. He managed to convince the septa to make herself scarce so he could have a moment alone with his son. He'd talked to the boy like he would an old friend. He told him of his fears, his love, his mind and his worries about Sansa's pending soulmate marking. Eventually, Tytos fell asleep on his father's chest as they lounged on the settee. Tyrion saw this nap as an inspired idea and did the same, making sure to turn a little toward the back rest so that the boy wouldn't roll off.

When Sansa finally made it back to her room, exhausted by the flighty, mindless old bats who really just wanted gossip from the Queen and the Wife of the Imp, her heart swelled at the sight. Her husband's dishevelled apperance, tunic unlaced, hair a mess, one shoe on, the other on the floor near by, with none of the stress of his day showing on his face, and the sight of their son, happily slumbering, his tiny fist clutching his father's shirt reminded her once again how lucky she was to have them both. She covered them up with a blanket and kissed both of their heads. She wouldn't wake them. Still, as soon as they did, she'd go on to remind Tyrion just how much she loved him.

The little moments grew to be the ones that Sansa cherished most; The most frequent culprits of her admissions. Sometimes, they would occur in more unexpected ways.

One sunny afternoon, she sat on the floor with Tytos, teaching him how to play with a new, elaborate toy with wooden shapes that slid along bent metal tracks. Each time she dropped a shape to the base of the toy, she made a funny noise and the baby would laugh. It was among Sansa's favorite sounds in the world. Still, when he smiled, his emerald green eyes lit up in the same way as his father's. There was no denying that the boy was his father's son, even with the Tully red hair. "Are you laughing at me? You are trouble." He crawled toward her, grasping for her attention which she readily gave. She pulled him into her lap and carded her fingers through his curls. "You're just like your papa, you know that? Just like him." The baby made a noise that sounded like an agreement to Sansa. She stood up and whirled him around the room. "What do you say you and I take a trip to visit him in his office, hm?" Tytos babbled what Sansa took as a confirmation. "I think that's a good idea and, it seems, you don't have much choice in the matter yet." She popped the boy upon her waist and plucked a small basket from the mantle, deciding that they would surprise Tyrion with lunch. "I'm glad that you don't require that cumbersome basket anymore and you can be carried on my hip," she said, once they'd retrieved their food from the kitchens. "So much easier." Tytos flailed his hands excitedly, beginning to recognize the nearer parts to his father's study. When he did, his hand wound itself into her single braid, as it so often did, and yanked. "Except when you do that. Unfortunately, sweetling, the hair is quite attached." Sansa couldn't manage to extricate herself from his grasp, so she decided to let it go for the time being. The boy loosed a sharp cry of delight as they reached the door they sought. "Yes, just like you are."

Sansa pushed the door open with her elbow and was greeted warmly by Tyrion, who had already raised from the desk. "Well, isn't this a welcome surprise? To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, taking the basket from his wife and setting it aside.

Gliding further into the room, Sansa replied, "I asked Tytos what he wanted to do today and he told me he wanted to have lunch with his papa."

"Did he?" Tyrion tugged a little at his son's foot. "That's a good lad, isn't it?"

Placing Tytos on the carpet, she moved to sit at the chair by his desk. "I thought we'd save you the trip and bring lunch to you because we love you." Before she could finish her thought, her husband was before her, pressing a passionate kiss to her lips. "Hello."

Tyrion smiled warmly, greeting her with his eyes still closed. "Hello, my love" He rested his hands on her thighs, wondering how she could have possibly known that he would be in desperate need of a distraction. "I'm glad you're here," he confessed. "I was about ready to fling that ledger across the room. Somehow, Jaime has decided that 100,000 gold dragons should be alotted to training all knights to be ambidextrous, as though that should cost anything at all." He gestured to the open book on his desk with a groan. Truthfully, he didn't understand how any of what Jaime wanted was the type of thing that needed budgeting for. It was the type of thing that required planning and a change in the curriculum, but certainly not the budget. We need a Master of Coin because, I can tell you for certain, I will not be filling both spaces much longer."

As he continued to fill Sansa in on his day, Tyrion played happily with Tytos, guiding him to toddle along ahead of him. He couldn't imagine a better lunch break. Sansa had made a fair point, though. "If you don't return to work, does it really constitute a break?" He decided that he was certainly willing enough to test it out.  
Every night before bed. Every morning when they awoke. When he left for his morning meetings. When he returned for the evening. Not a day would go by that Sansa didn't tell Tyrion she loved him at least a half dozen times.

Three days before she turned twenty-one, they lay still, wrapped tightly in one another before bed.

Tyrion, still breathless and sweating, turned to her, placing a gentle kiss over her heart. "I love you."

"I l-" Sansa started to reply but was cut off by a better-placed kiss, this time on her mouth.

"Sansa, I swear, you've convinced me," he said, lips merely a hairsbreadth from hers. He lowered his voice to a tone he knew sent shivers down her spine. "You love me," he assured, kissing down her neck.

Fingers entwined in his curls, Sansa arched her back, wondering what had her husband so riled up that night. As he slid his hands around her, she felt her desire for him bubble up once more. "I love you. And I will never stop." She looked directly in his eyes as she spoke. "And in just a few days' time, your words will be on my skin and you'll never have cause to doubt it ever again."

Over the days that followed, Sansa found herself subconsciously clinging to Tyrion at every given chance. Sansa saw it as irrefutable proof that Tyrion was, indeed, her soulmate. Tyrion, however, found himself in a panic as his old doubts reared their ugly head, unable to handle the thought of losing Sansa now. He tried to tell himself it was okay; That no matter what, they'd be able to work it out. Still, every touch loomed over him with his father's voice reminding him it could, indeed, be their last. It pained her to see him so troubled, but she knew it would all be behind them soon, so she decided to grant him the permission to mope.

On Sansa's nameday, they'd arranged for an early supper in their chambers. Sansa and Margaery sat side by side with Tytos bouncing happily between them. Jaime sat on a high back chair, facing the girls with Tommen cross-legged on the matching Ottoman in front of him. Tyrion sat at the desk. In his office. Alone.

His absence didn't go unnoticed long. As the afternoon turned to evening, Jaime wondered what possibly could be keeping his brother. "Where is your husband, Sansa?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes, leaning further back into the chair. "Avoiding me."

"Whatever for?" he asked. He'd never have imagined Tyrion missing that moment.

With a shrug, Sansa turned her focus entirely to her good brother. "He's afraid. He said that he had lots of work to do and he'd be here before I know it." Jaime moved to interject, but she continued on. "But what, pray tell, would the Hand of the King be doing that's so important if the King, Queen, and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard are with me? He's trying very hard to make it seem like he doesn't still believe on some level that I'm going to end up with someone else's words on my body and leave and take Tytos with me." Her son bounced lightly at the mention of his name and she turned to pinch at his cheeks. "But we are not going anywhere, are we?"

Shifting his weight forward with a groan, Jaime moved to raise out of the chair. "I'll go get-"

He meant to retrieve his brother from his study and remind him, perhaps not so gently this time, that it was his wife's nameday and he really ought not to miss such an important one. Sansa, however, knew that this was going to happen. "No, Jaime, it's fine. He'll see. I've known all along that his insecurities would rear their head right about now." She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head, a little aggravated that she had been right, after all. She had harbored the hope that, maybe, she'd be able to convince him on her own. Nevertheless, she knew that it was neither of their faults. He had years of deeply rooted pains regarding his own self-worth. Two years was certainly not enough time to have them disappear. Sansa still found herself lost in fear, even knowing that Joffrey was dead and could no longer harm her, and that had only been a small fraction of the time her husband had been tortured by the thoughts in his own head. They were working on it, and today would be a big help, for both of them. "I've waited through two very long years of this. However much longer I have to wait won't change the way he is, and I would never wish for it to." She smiled, remembering why they'd decided for such an early time for the gathering. "But I do know that I was born in the late afternoon, so it shouldn't be much longer."

"We've already discussed her plan of action," Margaery said, a devious plan forming with the slightest upturned curl of her smile. She turned to her friend and laughed, imagining the fun Sansa might have with it. "Oh, I do hope it doesn't show up someplace boring like your wrist. We'll have to find you gloves."

Tommen and Jaime watched the girls curiously as they giggled and conspired. "I've already planned for that. They're in my dressing table."

The group talked on for another half hour or so before Sansa's eyes grew wide. Her heart raced as she stood up, dashing to the looking glass by the bed. "Where?" Jaime asked, putting the pieces together.

"Just under my wingbone," she called. Her trembling hands struggled with the ties. She needed assistance. "Margaery, would you help me for a moment?"

Raising to her feet and handing Tytos off to Jaime, she strode quickly to her side, undoing the laces easily. Sansa peered over her shoulder at her reflection and calmed instantly. Clutching her dress to her, she walked back into the sitting room, turning so that the men could read them. "Tommen, you were there when we met. I'm not wrong, am I?"

Reading the words fresh on her skin, he smiled, happy for his aunt. "That's exactly what it says and I see enough of his handwriting to know that that's his."

"Jaime, you can still take Tytos for the night?" Sansa asked, making doubly sure she was free to take her news to her husband once and for all, suddenly exceedingly impatient to get to him.

Laughing, Jaime raised from the chair, watching as Sansa leaned down to kiss her son goodnight. "Of course. Come here, little Lord," he lifted his nephew swiftly onto his hip and bounced him. "Your parents are going to have words. And then they're going to have something else entirely that we'll let them tell you about when you're older." He winked at his good sister as she gave him a gentle glower, wondering momentarily if, perhaps, she'd made a mistake in asking Jaime to watch him for the night. "And then you're going to have a little sibling because your mother and your cousin Margaery are wicked women. Wicked, wicked women who make very handsome babies." He tapped the boy's nose lightly, earning himself a giggle. "Would you like that, Tytos? You're going to be a good big brother, aren't you? Just like your uncle, and if your Aunt Brienne ever gets home you'll get to meet your Aunt Arya..." he trailed off, retreating from the room with the boy.

Tommen bid her a happy year and took his leave as well. Margaery helped make Sansa ready, choosing a more playful gown, heavily corseted but with much easier lacing. They quickly plaited the top half of her hair back and she dabbed some perfume oil on her neck and wrists, filling the room with the familiar bright scent. Margaery gave Sansa a quick hug and a cheeky pat on the bottom, sending her out the door, calling slightly ill-mannered words of encouragement to her as she made her way down the hall.

Her trip to his study was as quick as she could possibly have made it. She skipped steps and came as near to running as she would dare, skirts swishing with each step. A passerby would have expected the motion from a handmaiden or the daughter of a visiting lord. Certainly not the wife of the Hand of the King, a Lady of not one but two of the Great Houses of Westeros. When she reached the door and knocked, the nearness of her husband was almost palpable through the wood. When her rapping went unanswered, she called out, "Tyrion?"

"In here, My Lady," he called, sounding rather glum. From the nearly empty flagon of wine and untouched lunch tray, Sansa could tell that her husband had allowed himself to mope most of the day. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her. The ache in his heart was simply visceral. His eyes begged for her to put him out of his misery.

"Oh, stop that, will you?" she teased, crossing around his desk and kneeling before him. "What was the first thing you said to me?" He still wouldn't meet her eyes. She sighed, tilting his face to her. "Tyrion, do you remember? I know what it was. I remember." When she was sure he wouldn't look away, Sansa let her hands rest on his chest. "Do you?" she asked.

Tyrion closed his eyes, looking at his hands sadly, wishing hers were still within his. "I suppose your marking showed up, then," he suggested, leaning back and watching her carefully.

"I don't know, Tyrion. I don't care. I love you." She continued on, stressing what she thought to be the most important part. I choose you." She leaned over him, bust nearly pouring out of the low cut dress she'd chosen specifically for this reason. "Find out for yourself." She crooked her leg up onto the arm of his chair, leaning back against the desk. "It is my nameday and I get to choose what happens now, just as you've always had me do." Tyrion eyed her curiously, questioningly. The decision to give in to her wishes wasn't even a conscious one for the most part. He slid his palm up her skirts, brushing them to the side and examining her long legs. Nothing. Sansa gave a playfully innocent smirk. He kissed the inside of her thigh and stood up, letting the fabric fall back into place. He took her by the hands and pushed her sleeves up to the elbow. When she turned to allow him access to the laces, he worked them loose with practice hands and smiled. She lifted her left arm from the sleeve and Tyrion slid the other off her shoulder. The dress fell to the floor.

And there they were.

Just along the curved bone of her right shoulder, Sansa's soulmate marking had come in. Sharp, neatly angled letters. He brushed his fingers across them once, expecting himself to wake up as he did. When he didn't, he snaked his arm around her, guiding her to lean back ever so slightly, granting him access to kiss the words. Sansa felt them alight as though he'd given them the breath of life. "What does it say?" she asked.

As though she didn't already know.

Tyrion circled around her, "My Lady, I'm sorry for your loss." Her skin prickled hearing him speak his first words to her once more. "Sansa-"

"It looks like you're stuck with me," Sansa replied, turning to face him with a broad smile.

Before he could make a witty or self-deprecating remark, Sansa brought her lips crashing hungrily to Tyrion's. His kiss felt want to set her on fire. Each touch brought with it a newly charged sensation. Tugging wantonly at each other's clothes, they made short work of having their flesh pressed against one another. Tyrion walked her backward until she was against his desk. He kissed down her stomach to the nest of curls between her legs.

Sansa eased herself up onto the desk sending papers flying as she did. Her back arched instinctively as her husband quickly found her most sensitive areas. She closed her eyes, for now just enjoying the feeling.

A new confidence ran through Tyrion's motions. He now, whenever old doubts wore him down like waves eroding the shore, had tactile proof that Sansa, for better or worse, felt the same way for him as he did for her, not that he truly needed it anymore. One practiced hand worked nimbly between her legs as the other explored the bare expanse of skin lain out before him. He traced the delicate curve of her breasts, palming at one. He ran his thumb around the nipple, feeling it respond taut soon after. Bringing his mouth to her thigh, he kissed and sucked his way, a trail of light pink markings on pale flesh leading to her sex. He swapped his hand for his mouth, tongue flicking daringly along her folds until he reached the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top. He mouthed gently, sucking at the point and driving Sansa wild.  
She slid forward, finding her footing easier than she'd expected. She grabbed Tyrion by the hand and led him to the upholstered chaise by the bookshelf. Sansa pushed him down on it gently and laughed at his faux indignant huff. "Much better," she cooed, watching him settle back into the corner.

Tyrion crooked his finger, beckoning her toward him. "You'll pay for that," he growled, pulling her into his lap, swatting her bottom playfully as she climbed astride him. She yelped in return, her protest turning into a giggle as she leaned into him, tugging his lip between her teeth. He gazed up at her, resting his hands on her back for a moment. "You are perfect," he said.

Able only to laugh, Sansa brought her own hands behind her to lace over the top of his hands. She brought their coupled palms together and guided his hands to her chest. Once he had refocused, she grazed her nails lightly up and down his chest and leaned backward, up and down his manhood.

Each moan fell upon Tyrion's ears with a newfound timbre; his beautiful wife wanting him and only him. She leaned forward again, body flush against his, near enough to feel his heart beat in time with hers.

Losing himself in his own pleasure, Tyrion's movements became more and more erratic; more and more desperate. Sansa rocked harder against him, bringing herself to the edge. As Tyrion came to rest, he wrapped his hands around to her back and traced his fingers gently over her fresh marking. The newly charged sensation sending her toppling into her own ecstasy.

When Sansa's world finally calmed back down, she rested herself against Tyrion, and pressed a kiss to the space on his chest where his marking had lain. "I love you. Do you believe me now?" She smiled at him, snaking her leg up between his, meaning to keep him there as long as possible.

Unsure of what he should say in the moment, all he could manage was a simple, "I'm sorry, Sansa." And he was. He knew as well as anyone that the wait for this day had been difficult on his wife, and his baseless doubts certainly hadn't helped. "I am a fool."

"Yes," Sansa agreed, secretly meaning to shock her husband, "you are a brilliant man who, like many brilliant men, is very, very foolish when it comes to love." He laughed, pressing a kiss between to her shoulder. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head, "Tyrion, I love you." She reached down and laced her fingers with his, clasping her free hand around it tightly. "I am yours and you are mine." And she meant it. She meant it the day they were married, but here, with her soulmate, she knew that she meant nothing else more.

Tyrion pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand and smiled. "I love you, Sansa." For the first time since his mark had come in, Tyrion felt himself truly breathe, truly loved. His father's nagging voice in his head fell silent. All he could hear was the sound of Sansa's heartbeat as he rested against her chest.


	20. Chapter 18

When they'd reclaimed the stronghold of Winterfell from the Boltons, Tommen had made one simple change to the inheritance rights of the seven kingdoms; claims go to the eldest heir, regardless of gender. Sansa would take back her home. She awoke in her bed, beside her husband, and smiled. It had been years since he'd been granted leave of his duties as hand.

Jaime had moved into the position willingly with one caveat, that his wife fill his space as Lord Commander of the King's Guard which Tommen was more than happy to oblige. Once she'd brought Arya and the young man she'd been traveling with back to King's Landing, Brienne had demonstrated herself to be more than capable. They'd immediately struck up a bond at their shared exhaustion with Jaime. Truthfully, he wished she'd been around when he was a boy. Tommen was sure that there would have been much to learn from her.

Loras Tyrell had been called up to act as Master of War. There had been some concern voiced at a Tyrell on the small council, but he quickly dismissed their whining. There was an air of nepotism at play, of course, but in reality, he had heard countless stories of the knight's bravery and of his frontline service at Renly Baratheon's side. Given the circumstances, he felt that someone who had been an active participant in the most recent war in their history was of much higher value than someone who hadn't seen battle since before he was born.

When Jon had brought his brothers South, some years earlier, he'd brought with him Samwell Tarly, whom he'd released from the vows of the Night's Watch, allowing him to become a Maester. After a short while at the citadel, he was proven to be more capable than most men three times his age, he was offered the position of Archmaester.  
Upon his return, and at his sister's behest, Bran had been chosen as Master of Laws, which startled Jaime, but they'd had a long talk about a great many things. Their conversation had led to Jaime sobbing and begging Bran's forgiveness. The younger man simply gave a joyless laugh. He reminded him that everything happened for a reason, and he was part of a greater plan, now.

When his first instinct for Master of Ships, Arya, had rightfully laughed in his face, the king had to reevaluate what he was looking for in the commander of the royal fleet. In the interest of a good-faith position, Tommen had named Yara Greyjoy Master of Ships, hoping that having her nearby and in a position of power might sate any further rebellion, or at least keep her close enough that it wouldn't come as a surprise.

When he'd reached Essos, Lord Varys had meant to advise the Targaryen girl but had been largely uninspired. He'd seen some dark impulses rear their heads in the name of justice. He had made haste to return to King's Landing when he heard that things had calmed. Tommen had welcomed him willingly, glad to have an experienced advisor once again.

The last position to be filled was that of Master of Coin. Tommen had struggled with the idea for some time. He knew that he needed the position to be someone who was good with numbers, cautious but not a spendthrift, charismatic enough to win over those from whom they sought aid. Above all else, though, he knew the crown thrived with a Master of Coin who was trusted. Littlefinger had never been that and, truthfully, while Tyrion had been handling the duties, everything had leveled out. He thought, perhaps, to ask for Mace Tyrell, but Margaery insisted that, despite her father's amiable nature, he was not particularly the type of man who should be in charge of large amounts of coin. She had also reminded him that this was a man whose mother had killed the previous king and that there were still some who believed him a party to it as well. Everyone knew that Loras was a skilled warrior, but his father wasn't known for his frugality. Eventually, on a trip to visit his sister in Dorne, he'd extended the offer to Ellia Sand. The girl was the least vicious of the Sand Snakes, preferring more intellectual pursuits. She and Loras had become fast friends and sought each other's advice frequently.

Once the positions had all been filled, Tyrion and Sansa packed up their son and their lives and headed North. Sansa and Tyrion adjusted quickly to life as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. The people were considerably quicker to accept him than either of them had expected, having adjusted to a Kingdom at peace and seeing firsthand how happy he made Eddard Stark's eldest daughter. With Rickon and Arya at hand, the whole transition was fairly easy. Even when Arya eventually left for Storm's End with the man she called her "traveling companion," she floated between both for quite some time and harmony had been restored.

Morning dawned on a deeply frigid morning in Winterfell, some five years later. Sansa rolled onto her side and kissed her husband awake. "Good morning," he yawned, turning to face her. "Remind me again what is on the agenda for today."

"Absolutely nothing," she smiled. "For the first time since Robb's birth, we have absolutely nothing to do. The storm was too heavy and we are, indeed, snowed in." She moved in closer to her husband and wrapped the furs tighter around them.

Robb was nearly six months old now, born as Winter began to threaten it's parting blows. Eirlys, his big sister, was nearly upon her third nameday and every bit as stormborn, but with the added bit of being undoubtedly Stark. There was no denying that all three, even Tytos, were as much of the north as their mother. Even Tyrion was finding things much more agreeable than any of the time he'd spent in the North previously.

The couple spent the better part of their morning uninterrupted, lazing about their chambers quietly reading and sewing in front of the roaring fire. It was in moments like that, ones which reminded them of the earliest days of their marriage, that they both felt most at home. That was the thing, Tyrion thought.

"Maaaaama! Lys bit me," came Tytos' sweet, tiny voice, shrieking into the common space. Eirlys followed behind on all fours, snarling and howling, baring all of her tiny teeth. The little boy climbed into his mother's lap and stuck out his arm, complete with a small circle of wetness that could only be from the mouth of a toddler. "Make her stop!"

Sansa groaned, adjusting her angle to face her daughter. "Why did you bite your brother?"

"'M a direwolf," she growled, snapping her teeth together demonstratively and stopping in front of her father.

"A direwolf, are you?" Tyrion asked, pulling his daughter onto the chaise beside him. "Whatever happened to my pet lion cub?" He tugged on the little girl's mane of strawberry blonde curls.

Eirlys curled up next to her Tyrion and began to whimper until she was petted. He looked at his imaginative little girl in awe, though well aware that she was shaping up to be quite the handful- if not a little strange. "I saw one of the statues of a puppy in the great hall and Septa Tanwen said it was a direwolf like Mama." Tyrion was unable to fault that reasoning. If their daughter was to be anything like Sansa, he would encourage it wholeheartedly.

From where he clung to Sansa, Tytos objected. He whipped around to stare at his sister in disgust. "Mama's a lion, Lys. Not a wolf." He rolled his eyes and sighed, granting his parents a glimpse of the wild teenager he was bound to become in no time at all. "Lannisters are lions."

The boy was shaping up to be every bit as bright as his father, and Sansa admired that about him greatly. "But what about Aunt Arya, Uncle Bran, and Uncle Rickon? What are they?" she prompted.

"Wolves," he said proudly. He was learning all the sigils of the houses and he was very good at it, quick to tell everyone what their banners were. "But Aunt Arya won't be a wolf for long. Papa said she's going to be a Stag." He turned to face his mother, confidentially. "Apparently, Uncle Gen is secretly a Baratheon. Did you know that, mama?"

Feigning shock, she played along. "No, but I'm glad you told me, Ty." She wrapped her brilliant boy tighter in her arms. "But if your aunt and uncles are wolves, doesn't that mean that before your papa, I was a wolf, too?"

Scrunching his nose in confusion, he shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Why not," Tyrion asked with genuine interest. His children's minds, he found, opened his to concepts he'd never even entertained before. Even if they weren't particularly profound, which they often were, they were at the very least amusing.

Tytos scooted from his mother's lap and adjusted himself to face his father. "Because we're a family and we're lions just like Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne and Cousin Joanna are lions."

Unable to shy away from a moment to teach his son, Sansa watched as Tyrion chose his words carefully. "So, what if, one day, Eirlys meets a man and loves him very much. Let's say he's from House Arryn."

Sticking his arms out to his side like wings, he interrupted "A falcon!"

"That's right," Tyrion said, tickling the boy's exposed ribs. "That would make her a falcon by marriage. Does that mean she was no longer a lion, like us?"

The thought stalled Tytos. "I s'pose not," he said.

"So why can't I still be a wolf and a lion?" Sansa prompted, grateful that her children were living in a world, at least for the time being, where they were free to explore their heritage without such terrifying implications as had existed prior. She remembered the way her stomach had roiled at the thought of being a Lannister all those years before. Now, Lannister meant Tyrion. Lannister meant Jaime. Lannister meant her little ones. Lannister meant cunning, and pride, and ferocity. It didn't seem so bad as all that. Stark still meant her mother and father. Stark still meant Robb. Stark still meant Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Stark still meant loyalty, and honesty, and a protective streak. Each part of Sansa, as she sat now, couldn't exist independently of the other. Her son shrugged, unable to come up with the why. "I am still as much a Stark as I was the day I met your papa," she said, looking up at her husband and realizing just how much more Lannister her first words to him were, a product of her resourcefulness learned at the hands of her in-laws, and how particularly Stark-like his were to her, open and true, "but people change, Tytos. When you're a family, you all start to act alike. So maybe I'm more lion than I was when I was a girl, but your papa's got some wolf in him, too."

"Papa's a wolf, too?!" Eirlys gasped, shooting straight to her feet and bouncing excitedly.

Sansa stood and swept the little girl to the floor. "No feet on the furniture, miss," she corrected, patting her lightly on the bottom. Tyrion, however, followed behind, playfully taking up the demeanor his daughter had entered with. Before long, the four of them were all crawling on the floor like wolves- Winter wolves in lion's fur.


End file.
